


Legacy of the Dragons

by TommyGlitter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Angst, M/M, Minor Character Deaths, Parts are very happy, Sexual Tension, Teen Wolf AU, Very Dark in parts, attempted non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:28:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 106,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1818553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TommyGlitter/pseuds/TommyGlitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the story starts, Stiles is a slave, and Derek is the royal sorcerer. Magic and prophecy rule their fates, as Chaos intervenes to change the course of life and land. They fight many struggles to find their true place in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chance Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank my two betas, Thrace_Adams and Casey270 for their suggestions and eagle eyes for catching mistakes. I never would have been able to write this without you! *hugs you both hard* All other mistakes are mine.
> 
> I also want to thank QAFManiac for the fabulous artwork and the amazing sound track. I love them so much! You made everything fit the story so well! *Hugs you hard*
> 
> All the characters in this story are directly from Teen Wolf. Even the unnamed ones. So, none of these characters are mine. This is a WIP, but I am writing 1,000+ words a day on it. This story WILL be finished in a timely manner, fear not.
> 
> Also, I shall scatter pictures throughout the chapters that inspired me. These pictures are not mine, nor do I recall where I found them.
> 
> I've based this story on the idea behind a fic I wrote a long time ago. I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoy writing it.

[](http://s1097.photobucket.com/user/TJRGlitter/media/Legacy%20of%20the%20Dragons/LotDficbanner.png.html)[](http://s1097.photobucket.com/user/TJRGlitter/media/Legacy%20of%20the%20Dragons/dividerChanceMeeting.png.html)

The enclosure was large, filled with more than threescore young, male slaves, such as himself. There were other large pens, all filled with different types of slaves. Muscular, working slaves filled the nearest one, and farther away, a pen of children. He thought there might be a pen of women beyond that.

Stiles looked through the bars of the stockade. The land here was so foreign to him. There were trees that he had never seen before: tall, skinny things with large limbs on top. Blinding white sand covered the ground. The air was dry and hot, and the sun never seemed to tire of blistering his skin. Most of all, he hated the close confines he shared with so many other people.

The guards gave them little to wear: only loincloths, leather collars, and shackles around their ankles. Furthermore, they were all extremely thin as the result of their arduous journeys to this place. Yet they were the lucky ones; they were still alive.

Fear and anxiety flavored the heavy scent of too many bodies too close together, which made things especially difficult for Stiles. Everyone in the pen seemed to be nervously shifting the same way he was, which only made him more uncomfortable because they bumped into him each time they moved.

Early in life, he had realized he was different. For some reason, certain people ‘pushed’ at him when they were close, as if an invisible force was shoving him. It did not happen with everyone, and of those that did, it was usually something he could almost ignore unless they touched him. Physical contact always intensified the feeling.

Occasionally in the past, he had come across people who had a push so strong he could feel them from across the room. It had not been too bad while they were traveling, but now with slaves and buyers both surrounding him, the push bombarded him on all sides, nearly overwhelming him. All he could do was hope someone bought him, and he never had to see a slave block again.

One of the many things he feared was that no one would buy him. His looks were average at best, worsened by his blasted moles dotting his face and body, and the bright red sunburn and blistered, peeling skin. As a slave, he knew his biggest flaw was his excessive energy, making it difficult to keep his hands still and his mouth shut, the way a good slave should. This day he would have to, if he were to have any hopes of a new master.

As he watched, the handlers brought the women up to the platform to begin the sales. They walked right in front of him. For the first time since he left his old master’s home, he saw his mother. As she passed, he reached out to brush her arm, but one of the many handlers roughly shoved him back from the bars and into the other slaves, who grumbled and pushed him away. She turned and saw him though, and she shared a brave smile with him, making it worth the rough handling he had received.

He wove his way along the bars, following her, until a man led the women up the steps of the bidding platform. The auctioneer told the potential buyers everything he knew about each of the individual slaves before the bidding began for that one. Stiles did not listen when it was his mother’s turn. He knew the man would say his mother was a noted mid-wife from her area, as well as an accomplished cook and house cleaner. Those things were all true, but the qualities that stood out most to Stiles were how loving and caring she was.

Stiles looked back in time to lock eyes with her one final time as the handlers led them off the block. The pain of watching her back as she walked away with the rest of the women made it hard for him to breathe. He was going to miss her dearly. What was he going to do without both his mother and his old Master? Scrubbing his hands over the back of his head, he tried to think of something else, determined that no one would see him show any weakness.

The children went to the platform next, and before he knew it, it was his pen’s turn. A score of the men were chained together by their shackles and led up to the block. Stiles somehow ended up being the first one in the line, and he quickly sent a silent prayer to the good spirits that someone would want him.

A handler unchained Stiles and led him to the middle of the platform as the auctioneer began a pitch, all the while walking around him. The whole time he did this, he ran his fingers along Stiles’ body. The man reeked from the smell of stale cigars and old cologne, and had a push that made Stiles want to cringe. He did not want the vile man to touch him, but he knew better than to pull away. He stood, holding himself still under the man’s hands, and then the trader ripped his loincloth away, putting him on full display.

Shame at his exposure made him feel physically ill. He wanted to cover himself and run. Jeering people laughed and pointed as if he were a jester. His senses reeled from this as much as the assault of their push. When he felt things could not get any worse, they did. The auctioneer grabbed him and stroked him until he was hard, and the whole time, the crowd urged the man on. None of this humiliation made any sense to Stiles. He closed his eyes and _tried_ to hide in good memories from the past, but he could not. There was too much noise and stimulation for him to be able to stay hidden in his mind. He paid no attention to those bidding for him; how could life be worse than it was at this point? Moreover, he was powerless over the outcome.

The handler led Stiles off to the side and gave him some togs. He quickly fumbled his way into them. The clothes were rough and too large for him, but there was a rope-belt, thank the good spirits, to hold the pants up. He swam in the top, which might have fit him only a few moons ago, but he was oh so grateful to have it.

His heart started beating hard and fast, and suddenly, he could not get enough air, no matter how fast he panted. Stiles feared he was about to have one of his ‘spells’, something he had not experienced since he was a child. If he were to have any hope for a new master, he knew he needed to stay calm. His old master had told him to hold his breath when they came on before. He struggled to do that and to keep control of himself as the man chained him to a post while waiting for the rest of the slaves up on the block.

By the time he calmed down, handlers had Stiles chained to the rest of the slaves and led them back down the stairs. The handlers took them out in the open where there were stakes in the ground. One at a time, they were unchained from each other and then re-chained to the stakes.

The sun beat down on Stiles’ red skin, stinging sweat running down his neck already. He watched along with the other slaves as they waited for their new masters, and he could feel their trepidation added to his own. He searched for his mother, but it seemed all the women and children had already left. He feared their last glance of each other was just that. The lump in his throat almost choked him.

One by one, their new masters approached and claimed them. Some he felt a push from, and others he did not. Then he could sense the push of one man from further away than anyone he had ever felt before. The nearer he was, the more horrendous it became! When the handler removed Stiles shackles, connecting the leash to his collar and handing it to the man, Stiles felt bile rising in his throat.

Stiles took calming breaths and studied his new owner as they left, properly walking three steps behind him. The man was about his height, but ancient, far older than his old master was. Only a lifetime of frowning could have left the angry line buried between his deep-set eyes. His skin looked paper thin, his head bald with only a ring of very short, white hair around the sides and back.

On the way to his carriage, his new master bid him to walk alongside him and began setting his rules. He spoke each word slowly and with a tone that brooked no dissent. “My name is Gerard Argent. You will call me Master Gerard. They said you know your numbers and letters. Is that true?”

Stiles rubbed his arms and thighs, and then scratched his stomach. His skin felt as though bugs were crawling all over him; the push was that powerful and unrelenting. Scared of what angering his new master could result in, he answered demurely. “Yes, Master Gerard. I used to help my first Master around his store, and I picked up supplies for him,” he explained, doing his best to hide his revulsion.

“Good. You can keep the house supplied while I am away. And stop that blasted twitching! I need to leave again as soon as I get you home, but when I get back, I will use you to keep my bed warm.”

_Keep his bed warm? As in… No. There is no way an old man like him could…_ Forcing his hands to stillness, fear and revulsion filled him as he answered. “Master,” Stiles did his best not to stutter when he spoke, “I have never been used like that.”

Master Gerard’s expression split into a wide smile, looking like the cat that got the cream. Somehow, the smile did nothing to make the man appear kind. “Well now, is that not special? That thought alone will keep me warm at night until I return home. Do not worry yourself about a thing. I will be taking good care of you when I get back. We will fill you up plenty, do not worry!” he told Stiles in the same, slow speech.

The ill feelings Stiles had been fighting grew worse, and he was sure he was going to vomit. When his master realized the state he was in, the man’s face reddened with anger. “What is this? Are you sick? Did they sell me a sick slave? So help me, if you die on me, I am going to demand every cent of my money back!”

Knowing that his new master was more worried about the money he had spent than his new slave’s health did nothing to set Stiles mind at ease.

When they got to the carriage, Master Gerard stopped by its door. “Sit up front with the driver! I do not want to chance whatever it is that has made you sick. A person can never be too careful. Just the thought of getting ill from a slave makes me shiver,” Master Gerard grumbled.

Unfortunately, the distance was not enough to lessen the push Stiles felt from his master’s presence. It left him nauseous, and the thought of the man actually touching him? Stiles was sure he would not survive that, let alone his master actually using him.

The driver spoke little, but Stiles was silent as they traveled, his mind reeling. The trip lasted for most of the day, and in the fading sun of late afternoon, they rode along the top of a hill. The driver pointed out his new master’s estate. Stiles found it hard to believe anyone could own so much. The land looked to be larger than the town Stiles had come from. Long shadows fell over orchards and fields beneath a setting sun with a sky filled with pink and purple clouds. Animals and crops seemed to fill all the land. It was beautiful and looked to be prosperous.

He wondered if the push his master had was due to the power the man must wield.

They proceeded down the hill and approached the willow-lined path to the house. The house was a mansion, and larger than any of the buildings that had been in the town he had come from. It was white, and had four large cylindrical pillars on the grand front porch that went all the way to the top of the second floor. The many diamond-paned windows reflected orange from the setting sun. There were bushes and trees placed in such a way as to make this place picturesque.

The carriage stopped at the front entrance where a slave stood with a trunk, tossing it up to the driver. Master Gerard shouted out, “You get yourself to the kitchen, boy. Danielle will put you to work there.”

Grateful for the reprieve of being away from his new master and the push that grated relentlessly against his nerves, Stiles hopped out. His only hope was that with an estate this big, he would be able to avoid his master once the man returned.

When the carriage moved off, he stepped through the door the other slave had disappeared into and searched for the kitchen. The rooms he peeked into were all large and light with the late afternoon sun reflecting off the white walls and marble floors. There were portraits of men along the hall he was following, as well as small busts sitting on tables by the walls. The doors were all a rich, dark wood and polished to a high shine. While the beauty of the building left him in awe, it made the loss of his old home even sharper.

He felt a bit of a push from a couple of the other slaves, but nothing like the master emitted, which was a relief. He finally found the kitchen when he looked out a door from the dining room. The kitchen was detached, unlike the house where he had lived before.

A wide covered walkway led to the building that obviously held the kitchen. Stiles realized it was about the size of his old master’s home that held six rooms including the kitchen. Heat from the kitchen stove had kept them warm in the colder months. He thought back to the wonderful aromas of cooking food that had drifted throughout the house and had made his mouth water. He missed everything associated with his old life, and ached to have it back.

He shook off those thoughts and stepped out the back door. Stiles was surprised to see that while they had whitewashed the kitchen to match the house, it was peeling and looked almost run down. It was small and plain, with several long, wooden tables with benches under overhangs, which must have been for those working out in the fields and stables.

Once he stepped inside, the activity in the kitchen amazed him. Women were busy running around, stirring things on the huge, cast-iron stove or mixing things in bowls. Boys moved things for the women, as well as kept the cooking fires hot. On the far side of the room, there were two more of the long, wooden bench type tables. The room was almost uncomfortably warm, but it had a relaxed feel to it despite the bustle. It felt as if everyone here was happy. He spotted the one who appeared to be in charge and approached her. She was a dark skinned woman about Stiles’ height, but heavy, with short, curly hair, and a quick smile. “Are you Danielle?” he asked.

“Yes, I am Danielle. You must be the new boy Master was going to buy. I see you are going to need some new clothes and fattened up some. What do we call you, boy?" she asked.

His hands fidgeted as he took in the room, then he focused again on Danielle. “Stiles. Call me Stiles. Master told me to find you. He said you were the fair lady in charge and would put me to work. That I should do your bidding and make sure the smile never slips from your beautiful face.”

“Oh, goodness, we got us a sweet one, we do! Master said he was going to buy someone who could go to the market. If you can do that, I will keep my smile. You know your numbers, Stiles?” she asked.

“I do, I know my letters also,” he shared, struggling to shut his mouth before he angered her.

“Oh, it is going to be so nice having you around here, ‘stead of waiting on Master to buy us things when we run low. We need supplies, so first thing in the morning someone will show you how to get to the market. Master got back too late, otherwise you would go today. All the merchants will already have gone home for the day.” She warmed him with her smile. “Now, let me get you something to eat. You need to put some meat on those bones!”

* * *

Once Stiles settled in, things were relaxed and easygoing. Master Gerard did not use an overseer when he was away; he had certain slaves he trusted to watch over the house and grounds in his stead. Whether the master was at home or not, Danielle was in charge of the kitchen. Stiles was content with running to the market every other day for her, as well as hauling heavy pots and chopping wood.

The view of the Argent’s estates from where he chopped wood behind the kitchen always amazed him. Every day, he saw slaves out in the large gardens set aside for vegetables, combating the determined weeds.

More slaves worked the grain fields beyond the vegetable gardens. There were oats for both the animals and people on the estate. The oat field went on almost as far as Stiles could see. He heard there were also fields of barley and hops on the land, which were important for the ale, as well as a wheat field so they would have flour for bread. Past the grain fields were orchards that Stiles knew nothing about.

Kennels filled with huge black and brown dogs were in the other direction. The way they jumped and snapped at the fence, growling and slobbering as Stiles passed them on his way to the stables, terrified him to his very core. Drooling maws full of razor sharp teeth could do a lot of damage to a person, and Stiles knew the dogs had trained for exactly that.

Beyond the kennels were the stables where he got his cart to go to market. Behind it were paddocks, one filled with workhorses, one with riding horses, and another for the cart ponies. They each had a portion of the stockade, separated by very sturdy looking wooden fences. Stiles loved to watch the horses as they galloped and played. Unfortunately, he had very little time to do that for there was too much work to do.

The day of Master Gerard's expected return, things began to grow tense.

“We need some sweet drinking water before Master comes back. He will be furious if all he is served is our well water,” Danielle told him. “You see that silly girl over there, trying to make herself all prurdy in the mirror? You tell her to give you the urns to collect water from the fountain in town. She can tell you how to get there,” Danielle said. Her focus quickly switched to one of the girls at the stove, scolding the girl for letting the soup boil over.

Stiles had never seen the girl sitting at the table before, and he wondered how that was possible. She was petite, with dark skin, long dark hair and a beautiful smile. He approached the young woman and watched as she outlined her eyes with kohl in a small, self-standing mirror about the size of her face. When she finished, she turned to him. “I am not so silly, you know. I try to look my best because I do not want to be stuck in the kitchen the rest of my life. It is too hot in here. My hands are always chapped and rough and I hate the heavy work. Master might return today. I hope he changes his mind and tells me to go warm his bed for him again. My name is Kara, by the way.”

Well, that might explain why he had never met her before. That was a position Stiles hoped fervently she could keep. “I am happy to meet you, Kara. Oh, um, I am Stiles. I really hope you can get the master’s attention back. I mean, you are so pretty and all. You should always be the center of the master’s attentions! All of his attentions, especially in the bed kind.”

“It is good to meet you, Stiles,” she stated with a roll of her eyes.

“Could you get me the urns? Then I will be out of your way. I will be so out of your way I will, like, be all the way in town!” Stiles said with a wave of his arms.

Kara rose with another roll of her eyes, and brought two urns to Stiles.

Sometimes Stiles wished he could just keep his mouth shut. It turned out the jars were large, taller than Stiles’ forearm, and he knew they would be heavy once filled!

The directions he was given were easy to follow. It was not too far past the market where he obtained spices and other things for the kitchen. He had to go past the whipping block, a place that made him shiver just thinking about it. Whipping a slave seemed so barbaric to him, and he could think of no good reason to treat another human in such a fashion.

Taking a pony and cart, he was surprised to find so many other slaves waiting to dip their jars at the fountain. He had hoped to get his water and leave quickly, but it looked like that was not going to happen. He could only thank the good spirits that none of the others had a strong grate against his soul. It was only mid-morning, and already the sun was hot as it beat down on him, and the air was heavy to breathe. Stiles stepped out of the cart and stood in the line at the fountain, the smell of the city wafting around him. As he waited, he observed his surroundings. Motion filled the town square. Brightly dressed people bustled up and down the cobblestone streets. There were beautiful horses, some with riders and some pulling carriages, carefully clomping their way among the crowd. A hodgepodge of noise, smells, and sights assaulted his senses; but all of it became unimportant when he felt the pull.

He stilled and closed his eyes, concentrating on it. The clamor around him rose and then fell silent as the sounds of a carriage neared and stopped. The pull increased with its approach. Stiles became nervous with the sensation. Never had he felt anything like it. It calmed his senses and aroused him at the same time. It was so different from the push! He could feel the person, but instead of an offensive assault, he felt drawn… enchanted… seduced even, by whoever was in that transport.

Opening his eyes, he realized the carriage was ornate, and obviously owned by a very important person. A richly clad man disembarked, and whispers nearby informed him that this man was the Monarch's nephew and sorcerer, Lord Derek.

His hair was such a dark brown that it might have been black. It shone in the sun as it fell over his shoulders, and he had a shadow of a beard covering his tanned face. Heavy brows framed his piercing, green eyes and held Stiles’ attention. The Lord closed his eyes, so Stiles quickly took in everything about the man. He was dressed completely in black, and his medallions of state peeked out from under the jacket he wore. He looked to be a very fit and active man by the way his snug clothing showed off his muscles, and the way the man held himself made him appear to own the very space he stood in.

Stiles could not look away as the lord stood there, his back straight, a look of deep concentration upon his face. When he opened his eyes, they locked with Stiles’ in a way that sent butterflies fluttering in his belly.

The man raised his eyebrows, and Stiles could feel his face heat up from the connection they seemed to have. Then Stiles realized he was the only one who had not dropped his eyes the way a respectful slave should for one so powerful. He quickly lowered his, though it made Stiles feel bereft of that connection as the dark-haired man began to search for someone at the fountain.

The Lord moved easily through the crowd while the throngs of people parted around him. He carried himself with self-assurance and power in a way Stiles had never seen before. He appeared to spot the one he was searching for and approached her.

She was not far from Stiles’ place in line. The girl was far and beyond the most beautiful slave there. She had large, bright green eyes and the rarest of hair color, _red_ , tied back into a long braid. She was about Stiles’ age and looked so tiny standing next to the Lord. As small as she was, it explained why this was the first time Stiles had noticed her.

The sorcerer took her chin in his fingers, angling her face up to meet his eyes. “You are Lydia?”

“Yes, my Lord,” she responded.

“Your master has agreed to offer you to the Monarch to warm his bed. You must come with me, now. ”

The girl, Lydia, smiled brightly at him. “Yes, my Lord. It will be an honor to serve the sovereign,” she demurely answered. He spoke to her once more, so quietly that Stiles was unable to hear it, and then she handed her urn to a girl beside her. Lydia then took off quickly, prancing almost, to the Lord’s carriage, and climbed up beside the driver.

Once the lord saw the girl safely seated, he turned his focus to Stiles, locking eyes as he approached. The intensity of that look sent zings of both fear and desire through Stiles. Remembering himself too late, he quickly dropped his eyes. The sorcerer hooked a finger under Stiles’ chin, and gazed deep into his eyes. Just like the push, the man’s touch only intensified those feelings the pull caused. His heart was beating hard and fast, but it was no longer from fear. The seduction of the pull was having the most unusual effect on him. He felt his face heat with the response his body was having, sending blood to his privates.

Stiles felt as if the lord’s captivating eyes had swallowed him completely. They were not green as he had first thought; the colors seemed to swirl. There were brown, green, blue and even gold flecks in the lord’s unique eyes. Standing this close, Stiles caught a faint, spicy scent surrounding the sorcerer, and was surprised to see a small scar in the lord’s right eyebrow.

[ ](http://s1097.photobucket.com/user/TJRGlitter/media/Legacy%20of%20the%20Dragons/Colorfuleyes.jpg.html)

“Who is your master?" the man murmured for his ears alone.

"Master Gerard Argent," Stiles uttered, lost in the Lord’s gaze.

"Do you like being his slave?" he asked with a raise of an eyebrow.

That question snapped Stiles out of his lustful daze. Stiles feared answering. He struggled to keep still as he worried out a response. It was not the place of a slave to decide if he liked his master or not. It was obvious the Lord wanted an answer though. Unable to turn his face away, Stiles lowered his gaze to the Lord’s lips, and found himself licking his own as he stared at the sorcerer’s full, lower lip. “My master has been away on business since he purchased me. He should be returning this evening.”

“Are you to be his bed slave?” the perfect set of lips asked quietly.

A breeze blew some of the lord’s silky hair in his face and then away. As he thought how to answer the question, he felt more loathing of being near his master then embarrassment at being a bed warmer. “That is his plan, my Lord,” he answered with shame. He hoped his revulsion was not obvious lest all the gossiping slaves surrounding him take stories home this day.

“You do not seem enthused at pleasing your master. Have you experience in that area?” the lord asked. Stiles found himself hypnotized by the shape of the man’s lips and the way the heavy stubble around them moved as he talked.

“No, my Lord, I am yet untouched,” he mumbled, wondering vaguely why the sorcerer would ask him this.

The corners of the Lord’s mouth seemed to twitch. “Tell me, why you are still pure?”

He raised his eyes to lock them with the lord’s green ones again, eyebrows raised above them. "That was never expected of me by my first master.”

“Were you forbidden to take a lover of your own?”

As far as sex went, he was a normal young man in the way that he thought of it constantly, and took things in hand almost daily. However, he was different, and very few people knew that. Even though it was not a subject that he normally shared, the pull he was experiencing made it important to explain his uniqueness to this man. “No, my Lord, it was not forbidden, although I am not sure if I can explain it well. When you put two magnets together the wrong way, they push. I feel that from many of the people around me to varying degrees, and touching someone who pushes intensifies that feeling.

“Added to that, my mother once told me that one day, someone would come who would pull me, and that I should follow that one faithfully. I have been saving myself for that one, my Lord."

Lord Derek’s eyes dilated, and he looked almost hungry. "And have you felt that pull from anyone yet?"

"Yes, my Lord. I feel that pull from you," he whispered.

Releasing his chin, the lord seemed to study him. "So what if I took you back to the castle to be a bed slave?”

Stiles knew better than to question his betters, but he had to be sure of the meaning behind the Sorcerer’s words. He did not want to get his hopes up, since the Lord had just collected one of the girls here for his uncle. Being a bed warmer for the Monarch was not his goal, but if the man before him did not want him as his own, at least he would be near the sorcerer in the castle. “Are you considering me as a pleasure slave for the Monarch?”

Lord Derek tilted his head back and laughed in exhilaration. It had a beautiful ring to it, and Stiles observed his face as it lit up brighter than the sun. "Oh, to see the look on his face were I to present you to him would almost be worth his wrath!” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “No, my uncle prefers women. He would not be interested in you." Sobering, his expression turned serious. “What if _I_ wanted you as a bed slave?” he asked very quietly while crowding into Stiles’ space.

Stiles already knew he would deny this man nothing. The gossip around town would be hot tonight with tales of this conversation, and he could do nothing to stop it. "My Lord, I would do anything you ask. If being your bed slave is what you desire of me, then I would be proud to be that for you."

A warm smile spread over the sorcerer’s face, and his eyes shone with emotion. “Have I found you at last? Tell me your name,” the man bid.

“I am called Stiles, my Lord.”

“Stiles.” The word left his lips in a breathy way, as if he were testing how it rolled off his tongue. "I leave you with an impossible task. Keep yourself pure for me until I return for you," he said with a caress of his thumb across Stiles’ chin, and he then turned to go back to his carriage. Lord Derek closed the door and looked out the small window, locking eyes with him one last time. The driver cracked the whip over the horses, and then they were gone.

Stiles surroundings came back into focus once the carriage was out of sight. The noise rose as people returned to their own business. He hoped the line would move so he could get away from the gossip that was already starting. The girls around him were all smiles and giggles and he could feel his face warming, not only from the sun. Finally, it was his turn at the well. He got his water and quickly left.

* * *

The bustle around him in the kitchen went unnoticed, for Stiles was deep in thought. He sat over the remains of his evening meal in a daze as he relived the events by the fountain earlier that day. He could not believe his luck. Not only had he found the one with a pull, but also he was a lord and not repulsed by Stiles in the least, or so it seemed. In fact, the lord was coming back for him, and had told Stiles to ‘stay pure for him’. _For HIM!_

He was so deeply involved with his thoughts that he was able to ignore the irritation that kept growing until he realized it was his master’s push. By then it was too late. The man walked through the door and into the kitchen. The offensive impact overwhelmed Stiles with its strength and quickly snapped him from his daydreams.

“Stiles,” Master Gerard said.

He had not realized the master had returned home yet, and had somehow forgotten just how bad it felt to be near him. He snapped his head around to acknowledge his master, and cringed at the thought that the man might walk further into the room. “Yes, Master?”

“It has been a long day, and I am so glad to be back home. Danielle is going to fix me one of her fine meals, and then I plan on a nice, hot bath. I want you cleaned up and warming my bed by the time I am done,” his master told him.

“Yes, Master,” Stiles mumbled and watched as the man turned and walked out of the kitchen. He felt physically ill at just being in the same room as the man. There was no way he could warm his master’s bed for him. Nor would he! Lord Derek told him to stay pure, _for him_. He had to find a way to escape Master Gerard’s attentions.

“You little hussy, you,” Kara growled at him after their master walked out. “You knew I wanted back in his bed, and look what you did! You got his attention before he could see me, and remember how good I was to him! I ought to scratch your eyes out!”

“No! Kara! Wait! I do not want to warm his bed. I _like_ it here in the kitchen! You have to help me! Please, go to his room and use all your wiles and talents to distract him. Surely, he will want to keep you instead of calling for me. In return, I will do my best to stay out of his sight. I beg of you, Kara!” Stiles pled.

Kara paused, and considered his words. “You really do not want out of the kitchen?” she asked.

“No. Nor I do not want his attentions in any way. Please Kara, go in my place. Tell him I have fallen ill or something,” Stiles begged.

She smiled and smoothed her hair. “Do I look all right? Do you think I look pleasing enough for him to want to keep me this time?” she asked.

“You look gorgeous. Even more than gorgeous! You have my eternal gratitude for helping me, Kara,” he responded. He knew if this worked out right, they would both get what they wanted. Wasting no more time, he grabbed one of the jackets hanging by the door and ran out into the dark, almost falling down the steps in his haste. All he kept thinking was _out of sight, out of mind._

He made his way to the barn, which was on the other side of the drive from the house, and climbed up into the back of the wagon. The carriage would have been more comfortable, but he knew it would only bring him more trouble if Master Gerard found out a slave had been in it without permission. At least the wagon was off the ground and sheltered from the night.

Because he was in the barn, he did not hear the sharp crack later, when Master Gerard hit Kara for taking it upon herself to warm his bed. He also did not hear her sobs as she ran out to the kitchen and into Danielle’s arms for comfort. Nor did he hear his master’s orders as he sent slaves out to have the field hands find him before he ran too far.

Stiles dozed. He was having beautiful dreams of Lord Derek and his pull, when suddenly two large slaves grabbed him and pulled him out of the wagon. He was too startled to do or say anything. “Quick, go get Master,” the one said to the other as he held Stiles securely, pulling him outside the barn and under the stars.

The master soon came to where they were, followed by a crowd of field workers. “Well, we got ourselves a runner, do we?” his master stated more than asked.

“No, Master. I would never run. I felt sick, sir,” Stiles replied quickly. The back of his master’s hand flew out, snapping Stiles head to the side. The sharp sting it left behind almost brought tears to his eyes, but the added push from his master’s touch made him lose his dinner, right on the ground between the two of them.

When Stiles finished being sick, the master continued. “Slaves do not run because they feel bad. Yet to save yourself, you call me a liar. We know how to cure almost everything around here. Lying, disrespect and running are three of the easiest!” The next time his master’s hand connected, it was in a fist. Stiles could do nothing to protect himself; two large slaves held him fast. The first punch brought a flash of white behind his eyes with the crack of his nose breaking. Master Gerard continued to rain punch after punch down upon him. Each time a blow connected, his stomach would heave from the push, but there was no longer anything in it to lose. Then the punches went lower, to his ribs and stomach. When he could think, Stiles was taken aback that a man as old as his master could have such a powerful swing or that much endurance. In no time he was a stunned, mass of pain, yet the swings continued.

When the master finally stopped, Stiles knew he had a broken, bloody nose, a split lip, and probably two black eyes. He hurt everywhere, and it felt as if someone was stabbing him with every breath he took. The master’s focus shifted from Stiles to one of the men holding him. The man’s breath was heaving from exertion as he spoke. “Strip him and take him to the kennels.”

Master Gerard turned and began walking slowly away, followed by everyone except the lone man guarding Stiles. Stiles could hear the murmuring and chuckling as they talked to each other fade as they left.

The slave still with him shook his arm roughly, which only made him hurt worse. “What in perdition is wrong with you, boy? You get to live up in the big house with all that fine food and comfort, and then you go and spit on it all!” He grabbed Stiles shirt and ripped it off his back. “You heard our master. Strip!”

Stiles froze with his fear. _Kennels?!_ The nausea he had felt in Master Gerard’s presence now turned to absolute terror. He began shaking, so hard that he could do nothing as he pictured the dogs tearing him apart. The big slave holding him quickly rid him of his trousers, and shoved Stiles in the direction their master had gone.

“What will happen to me?” Stiles asked, stuttering and gasping while holding tight to his ribs.

“That be up to the master,” the man growled. “What was going through your head to run like that? You know you get whipped for running.”

_Whipped? In the kennels? No, no, no, no, no!_ Stiles panicked, his arms flung out and he tried to pull away from the strong hold the other slave had on his arm. The grip tightened, and the man shook him again for his efforts, bringing a completely new level to his pain.

“It be a little late for that now. Master will see to it you never run again, slave,” the large man told him.

Stiles continued to struggle against the man’s hold as they went deeper into the grounds toward the kennels. “Master is going to whip me? Here? Tonight? It’s against the laws,” he sputtered. Even Stiles knew that the laws of the land demanded all whippings were to be public, so other slaves could watch and learn from them.

“Nah, Master’s not gonna whip you tonight, but yor not gonna like it, whatever it is,” the handler answered.

Stiles had thought his fear could not escalate any higher. There was no longer enough air for him to breathe, and his heart was struggling to escape his chest. _How could this be happening?_ The other slave had to drag him all the way to the kennels as Stiles panicked and fought, feebly, against the other man’s hold.

The kennels were strangely quiet when they got there. The enclosure consisted of wood frames with thick, wire meshing to fence in the dogs. None of the dogs moved or made a sound as they sat calmly for the handler in their midst.

Dozens of field workers were there, watching with the master. Stiles gasped and panted for air as his stomach roiled, terrified of what was to come.

Master Gerard muttered something, and three slaves quickly overpowered and forced him into the enclosure and onto the hard dirt. They stuffed a dirty rag into his mouth, and tied him spread eagle to stakes in the ground, before they took their hands off him. The stabbing pain in his ribs seemed to cut right through him, making even short breaths difficult.

All but the kennel-master quickly stepped outside the pen. Once they shut the gate, the kennel-master made a motion. “Scent!” he ordered.

Stiles screamed through the rag, convinced he was about to be torn apart. The dogs rushed him. There had to be at least twenty of the large dogs in all. They sniffed, licked, and stepped all over him. Dogs quickly found the blood on his face and got a taste of it while Stiles struggled to breathe. There were dogs licking into his ears and his armpits as well as his feet. They tasted him all over, and when one started licking his flaccid penis, he could not stop himself from urinating, terrified that it was about to be bitten off. That only drew more of their attention, and they licked and nuzzled his balls and lower between his legs as well. Tears ran down the sides of his face, but the greater horror happened when his manhood swelled and hardened from all the warm tongues and friction it was receiving. This torture seemed to go on forever, as he struggled against his bonds, desperately needing to curl into a ball to hide from everything.

Though he heard laughter and snide comments from those watching, it mattered little to Stiles. Horror had him wrapped in a bubble so tight he could barely take in any air. Finally, finally, the kennel-master called the dogs off and untied Stiles from the stakes. The dog master removed the rag from his mouth, yanked Stiles to his feet, and shoved him through the gate of the kennel. Once outside, they bound his hands behind his back.

“The dogs have your scent now. The next time you run, I will turn them loose on you. Do you understand what that means, boy?” Master Gerard asked him in his slow, deliberate tone.

Stiles nodded, unable to speak. The backhand across the face left him lying in the dust and dirt at his master’s feet. “When I speak to you, you will answer me with respect!”

Once again, field hands pulled Stiles back to his feet as he struggled to hold back a scream. He was in too much pain to do anything but obey. “Yes, Master,” Stiles replied, his voice cracking and hoarse, drying tears turning the dirt to mud on his face. Yes, he knew. He would never be able to hide from them, and the dogs would tear him to pieces the next time.

“Tomorrow, I shall take you into town. You will be whipped and branded as a runner. Then when we get back, I am going to stick my dick way up that fine ass of yours! I am sure it will not be so fine tomorrow, though. It will be a raw, bloody mess, just like your back. You are going to learn that I am the master, and when I tell you to do something, you will do it!”

Master Gerard glanced at the man in charge of the kennels. “Put him in the whelping kennel with Sara. That should give him something to think about tonight!” There was a roar of laughter, and then the master and most of the others walked off.

The dog master shoved him toward a different kennel, one Stiles had never noticed before. It was much smaller than the main pen. Stiles was unable to put up even a token resistance when the handler shoved him into the doghouse. Another handler led one of the large dogs in behind him. “This is Sara. She has been strange ever since she killed two of her litters. She was too high-strung to lie down and let them feed; she cleaned them constantly. I hope you have some skin left in the morning; you will need it,” the kennel-master told him. The dog began licking him immediately. The man chuckled as he secured the latch on the kennel.

It was the longest night of Stiles’ life. Between the aches and pain from the beating he had received, discomfort from the cramped space, the fleas biting, the dog licking, and his fear of what morning would bring, he knew he had nothing to live for. There was no way Lord Derek would ever want a scarred and branded slave around the castle, let alone as his own. Furthermore, if he had to submit to Master Gerard, he would completely lose his mind. He jerked and twisted, hoping the large dog would kill him, but luck went contrary for him yet again this night. He was bereft of everything except his constant and complete misery.


	2. Return to the Keep

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Derek turned to look out the window so he could catch one last glance of the unusual and captivating slave. He was gorgeous, even as thin as he was. What heightened Derek's interest, though, was the way the lad looked him right in the eye. It was a rarity for one in such a low caste to have that kind of steel in his backbone, seasoning the pleasure of the strong pull he had felt.

Once he lost sight of the lad, Derek turned around and spoke through the small slit of a window to Jackson, his driver. “Return to the keep immediately. Everything else can wait.” He had planned to look into a problem for the monarch on his way back, but this was a greater priority. It was of utmost importance that he spoke with the monarch, his uncle, immediately. He needed to get this lad removed from his present owner, today.

Time seemed to fly by as he sat in the carriage, with nothing to do but think. The pull he had felt today was different from all the others. It was the sharpest draw he had ever experienced. It had been so strong that it had seduced and aroused him before he had even laid eyes on its source. Once he saw Stiles, though, his arousal grew. Never had he wanted anyone with that kind of intensity before. Those eyes… He could spend an eternity staring into those caramel colored pools. That mouth: lips such as those were made to kiss and savor like a fine wine. He prayed to Rel, the God that protected families and aided in health, a God he had not prayed to in a long, long time. He prayed that he had finally found the one he had sought for so long!

On the other hand, if it turned out that Stiles was not the one he had been searching for and failed the test as the women had, he still had plans for the lad. Stiles seemed submissive enough to become the pleasure slave he had always dreamed of owning. Stiles would become the one slave who would take care of all his needs; the one that he could dote over, pamper, and feed by hand.

His instincts told him to take the enticing creature back to the fortress with him, but he knew the laws well enough to know that even the monarch could not get away with that; especially his uncle Peter. With him not being the one raised to rule, a certain sect of the people questioned everything he did. Gerard Argent was a part of that sect.

Therefore, if the lad’s present owner did not want to cooperate, Derek would need the proper paperwork and the assistance of Alan Deaton, the head of the council. Between his working knowledge of the law and his experience with difficult people, that man could easily convince the most stubborn of people to come around.

Derek watched the trees and secluded farms creep past them as the carriage bumped along the path. The return trip to the keep seemed to take forever. His worry increased with each passing moment. He trusted his gut, and it screamed at him to hurry, so he opened the window to the driver again. “Time is of the essence. We need to get back quickly,” Derek explained. He could see that Lydia, the girl he picked up at the fountain, was already nervous from the uncomfortable ride. He didn’t want to make her more uneasy, but he had to get back; his fear that he would be too late continued to grow.

Jackson was able to coax more speed from the horses, and the trip became even more jarring due to the ruts and bumps in the road. Derek sat tensely while his worry gnawed at him. They finally passed the tree line, and he could see the spires of the fortress in the distance, as well as storm clouds forming overhead. His mind began to ease somewhat when the bouncing ride smoothed out, until the carriage seemed to jump into the air, and then landed with a loud crack. Everything quickly began to list, and Lydia screamed like a banshee. Derek found himself lying against the inside wall, as the horses pulled the toppled carriage to a halt.

Aching and disoriented from his sudden fall, he shimmied up and out onto the carriage door that now faced skyward. Looking around, he saw that the horses stood waiting, reins intact. Then he spotted Lydia against a large rock, not moving. Overcome with guilt, he knew that any harm that had come to either the girl or the driver would be his fault for asking for more speed. As he climbed down, he watched the driver struggle to rise. Lydia seemed to be in more danger because she lay immobile. Examining her, Derek quickly realized she had taken a bad blow to her head. Laying his hands upon her, he closed his eyes and began the chant of healing. Pulling power from his core, he guided the colorful flow of magic toward the ‘wrongness’ under her skin. His mind’s eye traveled with that power, directing the magic, and weaving it into the damage. He stopped the bleeding in her head and healed the cracked bone in her arm. Pulling back his power, he opened his eyes as soon as he stopped chanting. He watched as Lydia awoke and looked up at him. “You will feel weak, but you are going to be fine,” Derek said and then helped her to her feet. He supported much of her weight as he assisted her toward a tree, giving her the opportunity to rest until they could leave again.

“My Lord, you honor me,” Lydia stated and tried to curtsey, but almost lost her balance.

“That is unnecessary. Just sit here and recover some of your strength.”

With his help, Lydia sat, and looked up at him with drowsy eyes. Knowing the girl would be out of harm’s way; he turned his back to her and returned to Jackson, who was inspecting the horses.

Jackson was a well-muscled man with gray eyes and sandy brown hair. His looks insured that he had never had any problems getting the girls to dance with him on the autumn moon. When he stumbled back, Derek could see blood running down the man’s side.

“The horses look unharmed, my Lord, but the carriage will never make it back. I am sorry. Please forgive me! I did not see that rock. It blended too well with the road,” Jackson explained.

“It is not your fault. Allow me to look at your injuries,” Derek bid, and led him back to the side of the carriage so Jackson would have something to lean against when he sat down.

“I am fine, my Lord. Do not bother yourself with me,” Jackson begged.

“You are not fine. Sit, so I can heal you.” The words almost came out as a growl. Derek knew he was responsible for the pain he had caused these people. He left Jackson no option but to sit down. Derek could tell his driver was in great discomfort by the way he lowered himself to the ground. “Hold your tunic aside for me,” he bid.

Once Jackson moved the fabric out of the way, Derek frowned at the sight of the horrible bruise already forming around the gash. He spared a glance toward Lydia, and found she had fallen asleep where she sat. Wasting no more time, Derek began to croon the incantation of healing again as he set his hands on Jackson’s side. He closed his eyes and followed the bruising back to its source. There was so much damage! He pulled energy from his core and it guided him to fix the organ that had burst and bled profusely. He knit tissue and fiber back together, repairing it, healing it. Then he repaired all the bleeding under the skin. He healed other bruised and damaged organs inside Jackson until all that remained was the trickle of blood running down his side. Derek wrapped his magic around the slice, and knit the skin back together, leaving only a pink line that would soon be nothing more than a small scar. He watched the swirling color as he pulled his magic back, faded now compared to when he first started. He had used up much of his power. When he opened his eyes, he had to squint from the sand blowing into them. Derek was surprised at how much time had passed. It had to be near noon meal, but it looked as if night were falling upon them. The storm clouds had darkened the land significantly, and the wind had picked up. Returning to the castle would be difficult.

“Thank you, my Lord,” Jackson stated, pulling Derek’s attention back to him.

Derek looked to the horses, their only way home other than walking. “Can you ride?” he asked.

“Yes, my Lord.” The two of them went to the horses and removed the apparatus that connected them to the carriage. Derek was able to calm the horses with a trickle of power, and then he gently shook Lydia awake and helped her unto the back of one of the horses. Derek mounted behind Lydia and took the reins, having her hold onto the mane. They both watched as Jackson struggled to mount, weak as he was from the healing. Derek knew the horses would return to their stables even with no guidance, so the only problem he saw would be holding onto their seats.

The sky opened up before they had gone more than a score of steps. The rain in this climate was not usually cold, but it was coming down hard, and with the help of the wind, it felt icy and painful. Straining to see where they were going, Derek made sure the horses remained within sight of each other as they made their way home. The ride was long and difficult for both the horses and the riders. Derek's power was too weak to protect them from the weather, so he wrapped himself around Lydia and tried to shield her as best as he could with his body. The wind seemed to be doing its best to blow them off course. He was soaked through to his skin, exhausted and aching from both the spill in the carriage and the pounding rain. They rode through the gates and slowed enough at the guard building so Derek could tell them about the disabled carriage. They would send someone out to clear the wreckage from the road and return it to the keep so repairs could begin.

“Follow us to the keep, and then return to the stable with both horses,” Derek yelled to Jackson after they left the guards. The inhabitants of the palace used one of the side doors to get to their private quarters, avoiding the masses that sometimes filled the main corridor.

He slid off the horse at the entrance, right into a puddle that came over his ankle high boots, filling his soft leather footwear with grimy water. He turned his face up, cursing as rainwater ran over his face in cold rivulets. Taking Lydia by the waist, he helped her off the horse, setting her on a dryer patch of ground. Even though he had wrapped himself around her, her teeth chattered and she felt icy cold. Healing took as much out of the one receiving it as it did the healer. Although he was used to that type of drain, she was not.

Jackson held his hand out for the reins. “Thank you for allowing me to return, my Lord. I know I have failed you,” Jackson said as Derek handed over the horse to his care.

“You did not fail me. Have the grooms attend to the horses and go to your quarters. You need rest to recover your strength.”

“Yes, my Lord. My thanks to you,” Jackson stated and headed toward the stable.

Derek watched as the man swayed on his horse, which confirmed his suspicions as to just how weak and tired Jackson was. He opened the door and guided Lydia through with his hand on the small of her back. Allison, one of the Monarch’s personal and trusted slaves, was waiting for them. She was slim, with dark hair and eyes, and a very nice smile. “My Lord, is this the girl the Monarch is expecting? I’ve been sent to make sure she is settled,” Allison explained.

“Allison, this is Lydia, the one you have been sent for. I leave her in your capable hands,” Derek responded.

“As you wish, my Lord,” Allison responded before turning to the girl. “Hello, Lydia. Come with me, dear.” She then took Lydia’s arm and led her inside.

He stood in the open doorway, watching them as they slipped through one of the servants’ entries. Derek was about to follow them inside when he looked over his shoulder toward the sky. What he saw through the heavy rain was blue skies back the way they had come. He stepped back outside and looked left and right. What he saw surprised him. At the edge of the dark cloud, he could see the afternoon sun in the western sky, and clear skies to the east. This was the strangest storm the sorcerer had ever seen. It seemed as if this weird storm were centering itself right above him!

Derek shook his head. That was impossible! Time was flying, and he needed to save the man he believed he had been seeking for most of his life. Striking off at a fast pace down the corridor, he headed to Peter’s quarters.

He took the steps up to the second story landing and walked along the west wing to where the royal suites were, his feet squishing water with every step. Peter’s suites were at the far end on the right, with an empty suite preceding it that had once belonged to his parents.

As he walked up to his uncle’s door, the guards stepped in front of him, stopping him. “The Monarch does not wish to be disturbed, my Lord,” Ethan, the muscular, guard on the right told him. The guard beside him was his twin brother, Aiden.

“I need to speak with him. Now.”

“My Lord. I am sorry. We have our orders. They included you. Lord Peter is not alone,” Ethan confided.

“I don’t care! Move out of my way!” he growled. It mattered not to him if the king from one of the neighboring countries was in conference with Peter.

The guard’s cheek twitched slightly, and Derek could tell the man was very uncomfortable, caught between the Monarch’s orders and his Sorcerer. “Sir! He has the new servant with him. The girl that you brought…”

_Not alone._ Now Derek understood. The servant’s entries truly were faster than the main corridors. It was not a meeting in his office as he had thought; Lydia was with him already. How could Peter even touch the girl as weak as she was? He ran his hand through his already messy hair, his frustration building even higher. “Step aside,” Derek ordered, giving the guards no choice but to do so or face his wrath.

Both guards edged away from the door, giving Derek access. He walked through to Peter’s drawing room, closing the door behind him.

They used this drawing room for intimate meetings with foreign dignitaries. There was a divan and two overstuffed armchairs situated around the hearth, and between them, mahogany tables, polished to a high shine. Peter would seat them before the fire with a glass of excellent wine, and negotiations would go Peter’s way as a rule.

There was also a large, mahogany desk near the opposite wall, where Peter kept track of all that went on in his domain. The door to Peter’s private quarters was near the desk, which Derek went directly to and banged on with the side of his fist.

“Peter! I need to talk to you!” Derek yelled through the door. He would at least give his uncle the courtesy of making himself presentable before barging in on him and the girl.

Derek could hear movement from inside the room for many moments before his uncle opened the door. “Come in, then, and calm yourself,” he said quietly.

He walked into a room much larger than his own. The large, four-poster bed was neat and crisp, but a privacy screen provided an intimate alcove on the far side of it. Sounds of someone bathing came from behind the screen. Peter wore his regular, polished clothes, as well as a scowl.

“What do you find so important that it could not wait until you at least dried the rain off, let alone washed away the mud?” he demanded with a glance at the footprints on the floor.

Derek ignored his uncle’s twaddle. Finally, he could do something about the worry that roiled in his gut. “I think I have found the one from the prophecy! I am sure of it, but I need your help. He was at the fountain where I finally found Lydia. I have never felt a pull to compare with the likes of his, and he said he was pulled to me. We need to remove him from his current situation.”

“He? A boy this time, huh? So why did you not just bring him with you? Then you would not be bothering us right now. Lydia is freezing cold. I am having her bathe here so she can climb directly into bed. She needs sleep after the healing you did for her. Thank you for that, by the way,” Peter added.

Peter _was not_ selfishly taking advantage of Lydia. He had taken it upon himself to have Allison tend her in his own warm suites. He could hear Allison on the other side of the screen, quietly talking to the new girl. He knew Lydia would be fine. Stiles, on the other hand, might not be. “Yes, a boy. He is a slave, his name is Stiles, and he is untouched. Peter, his owner is Gerard Argent. He plans to use him as a pleasure slave upon his return, which Stiles said would be tonight.”

Derek had always trusted his senses, and his uncle Peter, trusted Derek’s gut feelings, as well. The only people, free or enslaved, employed at the keep were the ones that had a clear pull that only Derek could discern. They had found those people to be trustworthy.

Of Argent though, he could feel nothing. Through their dealings with the man, they found Gerard underhanded and cruel, worse when in a foul mood or drinking. Trying to get the proper taxes out of him each year was a chore, to say the least. He was deceitful and petty, as well as having a mean streak. The man had taken at least one of his slaves to the whipping post every year for as long as Derek could remember.

His uncle looked at Derek as if he were crazy. “Why did you not hurry back then? He would be here by now.”

“We did hurry back. It’s as if the universe itself were trying to stop me!”

“What? Maybe he _is_ your mate, then. _Chaos will awaken from their chance meeting_ are the words of the prophecy.”

Derek was dumbstruck. Hearing ‘your mate’ spoken aloud put a completely new meaning to it. All of a sudden, that word was the sweeter than all the honey in the kingdom beehives.

Peter led Derek out to his office, quietly closing the bedroom door behind them. Then he opened the door to the hallway, sticking his head out. “Ethan! Attend me.”

The guard stepped inside the drawing room and stood at attention. “My Lord.”

“Find Deaton and have him attend us in Lord Derek’s office immediately!”

“Yes, my Lord!” Ethan turned, closing the door behind him. Peter turned to look at Derek.

“Get yourself cleaned up while I verify that Allison does not need for anything to help Lydia settle in bed. I will then meet you in your suite,” the Monarch stated. “I may even break out a bottle from my private stock of wine to celebrate you finding your mate, Derek!”

There it was again! _His mate!_ Between the pull and the way everything seemed to be trying to prevent him from retrieving Stiles… It _had_ to be him! Derek could not help the crazy grin that filled his face in answer to his uncle’s smile. _His mate._ Suddenly self-conscious with all the thoughts tumbling in his head, he turned and left Peter’s suite.

There was an empty suite across from Peter’s with Derek’s suite beside it, closer to the stairs. Before he returned there, he would make a quick stop in the bathhouse and rid himself of the layer of road dirt he now wore. Going to the baths would be faster than having water brought up. He made his way to the long hallway downstairs that ended at the entrance to the royal baths.

The baths were hot springs that his parents had bricked in many generations before. The water was very warm, and the tub itself was large enough for several people. The water moved continually, like a stream. It felt heavenly to Derek’s aching body. Tired as he was, he would have loved just to relax his aches away, but there was too much he had to do. Quickly scraping himself clean, he climbed out, dried off with one of the towels piled at the edge of the bath, and donned one of the long, blue robes hanging from the wall.

He left his dirty, soggy clothes and boots in a pile for Scott, his personal attendant, to take care of later. He hurried back to his suite, the stone floor cold on his bare feet.

Derek stepped through the door of his suite and into his office. The room was not very deep, but it was wide, and lit sconces lined the walls. A candelabrum which was also lit, hung over a large oval table, complete with six chairs set up on the left side of the room. There was a fire in the large hearth at the other end to keep the room warm. Woven carpets covered the stone floor, and a large tapestry of a hunting scene hung on the wall opposite the hearth, behind the table.

He continued across his office and stepped into his bedroom. Carpets covered the floor except around his bed, where pelts of fur protected his feet upon rising in the chilly mornings. The large, four-poster bed was against the wall to the right of the door. A painting hung over a large mahogany bureau that stood between two narrow windows on the opposite wall. An armchair sat in the corner on the far side of the bed with the hearth along the same wall, only closer to the windows.

He stepped through another door that led to his personal sitting room. Although the room was not very large, it also served as his dressing room and contained a wall of closets. While carpets and pelts covered the floor, a hearth in the wall opposite of the door to kept the room warm. A large armchair and a divan sat close to its heat, making it a very comfortable place to change his clothing. He was grateful his servant always kept this hearth lit.

There was a tapestry on one wall that depicted the fabled blue dragons of Arisama, and another on the same wall as the door that illustrated a creature with the body of a lion and the head and wings of a predator bird. He had heard these creatures still existed, and he hoped to see one someday.

The only other thing connected to this room was located behind one of the four identical closed doors. Three of those doors were in fact large closets, but the fourth hid a set of stairs that led up to another room. Before he was born, his great uncle and his wife had resided in these suites. He had heard that his uncle had kept a pleasure slave in the room above, just so the man could have easy access while his wife slept. That room would be perfect for Stiles, whether or not he passes the test of glamour. If he passed, Derek would not be able to use him, but the lad would be close enough that Derek could relax in his sitting room and bask in the lad’s arousing pull. A smile filled his face as he remembered the reaction he’d had to that pull. If Stiles failed the illusion, he could use this stairwell to the room above as his great uncle had…

Then he snapped back to himself. That line of thinking would have to stop. First things first, he had to get Stiles here. That meant he needed to meet with Peter and Deaton. He quickly dressed and made his way back to his office to wait for the other men.

When he arrived, Peter carried the promised wine with him. Derek had ordered a tray of food brought up as well, and they ate in relative silence, other than Peter’s comments about the cook and her wonderful food. Once they finished and pushed the trays aside, Derek rose and started pacing.

“Should Deaton not be here by now?” Derek asked.

Peter watched him try to wear a path in the carpets for a few moments before he responded in his soft voice of reason. “Perhaps you need something to occupy your mind until the Councilor arrives. It might not be a bad idea to go over the prophecy once again. Do you know where you may have hidden that scroll after you showed it to me on the day of my coronation? I am sure you have it memorized by heart, but I would like to study it again.”

Derek just looked at him, his eyebrows rising with the question about knowing where the scroll was. After scowling at his uncle, the sorcerer turned and strode into his bedroom. Walking to an empty corner, Derek spoke a word and waved his hand. Suddenly, a small alcove that held his sword, as well as several scrolls appeared. He quickly found the one he wanted, leaving everything else where it was. Once again, he said a word and waved his hand. The alcove was gone, and the corner was as empty as when he had walked into the room.

He returned to his study and opened the old, fragile vellum carefully on a clean spot of the table. Peter began to read it aloud, slowly. “ _When the one born heir abdicates for ancient Magic, the seat shall fill with blood unprepared. Beware; this is the sign of dire times to come._ ”

“We know this part has come to pass, with all that has happened for me to be in the seat of power,” Peter stated.

Derek raised his eyebrows as if to say he agreed, and then took up the reading. “ _The one true mate has the power to save the land. Lower in caste, the pull of a strong spark will tell. Glamour will suffice to expose poseurs from mate._ ” Derek paused after reading this. “As a slave, he is definitely lower in caste, and glamour proved that the women with the strong pulls were not the ones I was looking for,” Derek added.

Peter chuckled. “I remember how relieved you were with each failed test!”

“May the good spirits protect me from women!” Derek agreed with a smirk. Unlike his uncle, Derek’s tastes leaned toward men, good-looking men with spirit.

Peter continued with the prophecy. “ _Chaos will awaken from their chance meeting, Ever working to rend their growing powers apart; For united is the power to destroy this life’s Chaos. Well, it certainly seems as though Chaos awakened after your first meeting, with all that happened on your way back.”_

“I worry what trouble Chaos has put into Stiles’ life since our chance meeting,” Derek replied.

They both remained silent for a bit, worrying over the slave, before Peter finished the reading. _“If this mate has proven to be resilient and wise, Then purity and chastity upon their wedding bed Shall guarantee peace and prosperity in the land._

“If life’s embrace has defiled and ravaged this mate, Then the sullied sheets will precede the bloodshed, While famine spreads throughout the barren lands.” Peter paused with a thoughtful expression. “I agree, Derek. I am convinced this lad is of the augury. We need to protect your Stiles as quickly as possible. Are you planning to put him in the suite beside yours?”

Derek had not considered a room on the same floor that Peter and he shared. If it turned out that Stiles was the one he has been searching for, he hoped they would share his suite once they wed. In the meanwhile, he liked his first idea better. “No, I want him set up in the room upstairs from mine, the one with the connecting staircase.” He went quiet for a moment, thinking, and then he began pacing again. “If Stiles _is_ my mate, I should dismantle my Serail. I do not want to rub my pleasure slaves in his face. I believe I shall do away with it in any case. I can either sell them or put to them to use elsewhere in the keep. Scott can help Stiles settle in.” He paused, thinking before he continued. “I think it would be best to mark him and have it attuned to me. That way I will know if he is ever in danger.” After another long pause, Derek continued. “On the other hand, if it turns out Stiles is not my mate, I cannot picture anyone I would want more than him to put me to sleep at night,” he added, and felt a fluttering in his heart as he imagined that.

“ _If_ he passes the test and _if_ he is truly chaste, you had best make sure he stays that way,” Peter warned.

Derek’s pacing stopped as he met Peter’s eyes. “I know. However, I want him near me.” Derek knew he would not have to fight Peter for this. His uncle understood that he would need to create a bond with Stiles. If this slave were the one mentioned in the prophecy, he was important to both them and the land.

“If he is the one, it might not be wise to tell him the whole prophecy,” Peter suggested.

Derek raised his eyebrows and glared at his uncle. “Why not?”

“Well, if he is your mate - and that is only if, we shall have to grant him his freedom. What kind of freedom would it be if you told him he was free in one breath, and the next that he is to wed you? He might decide to do something else with his freedom, like find his own life somewhere else. Finding out you are his preordained mate may just scare him off, especially if you glower at him the way you are me,” Peter said, ominously contemplating how poorly that could go.

Derek considered the possible reactions the young man might have from learning that knowledge too soon. Derek had had many years to come to terms with his fate, so it would only be fair to give Stiles some time to build up to it. It could frighten him off or put an insurmountable chasm between them. “It is possible. I shall accept your advice and keep the part about him being my mate to myself for the time being. If he is the one, I will give him some time to get to know me before that needs to be sprung on him.”

They were well into their second glass of wine as Peter watched him wearing a track in the carpets. Between the healing weakening him and the wine, Derek almost stumbled as he paced, but he was too worried to sit. When the knock finally came to Derek’s office door, he bid enter. His heart sped when he saw that it was not Alan Deaton as they expected; but Ethan again.

“My Lord. The rains have stopped, but it is still difficult navigating the roads around the town. I just returned. It seems Lord Deaton has gone to his mother’s village up the seacoast. The word is she is ailing and near death.”

“You returned by yourself?” Peter asked.

“Yes, my Lord. I felt it important to report the news to you. The other sentry continued on to his mother’s village with the carriage. The roads were not a problem as we first thought they might be. The storm has only ravaged the area around the keep. The roads were clear once we left the immediate area.”

Derek locked eyes with his uncle. The worry in Peter’s face didn’t come close to the fear churning in his own gut. He knew it had to be dark outside by now. It may already be too late to save Stiles.


	3. Master Gerard

[](http://s1097.photobucket.com/user/TJRGlitter/media/Legacy%20of%20the%20Dragons/dividerMasterGerard.png.html)

Gerard Argent awoke much earlier than normal, tossing and turning in his bed. He had a morning stiffness, but it was much harder to ignore than usual. It was because the plans he’d had with his new slave had gone to rot.

Since the moment he had laid eyes on that slave, desire had filled him in a way it never had previously. He wanted to do things to that slave, vile things that had never crossed his mind with this amount of passion before. He wanted to mark that slave’s perfect skin, leave scars so that the slave would never forget who owned him. Then he wanted to break that slave so he would never have a thought of his own again.

Sure, he had enjoyed whipping his other slaves when they had angered him. What reasonable man would not? Nevertheless, the overwhelming desire to hurt this new slave happened long before he had been angered. Now that he was angry, he was bursting with the need to hurt him, brand him, _break him._

He had been away on business, and the whole time he was away, he thought about how the slave had said no one had ever used him that way. Those words seemed to spur Gerard's desires. During the long trip home, the untouched slave never left his mind. He kept picturing the way he would take the slave the first time, and then the second and third. When he had returned home and had gone to the kitchen to find the boy, smiling over his dinner no less, he had thought he might lose control of himself right there. Then the insolent slave had played him for a fool and had run.

He had been shocked when that other harlot of a slave had taken it upon herself to weasel into his bed uninvited. Almost as if she thought that _she_ made the decisions around here. He was the master, by Gods, so _he_ decided just who got the honor of warming his bed.

Furthermore, what was going on with his slaves, anyway? He had considered using an overseer when he was away in the past, but he really could not trust anyone else to respect what was his. He knew how men could be when given power over what was not theirs. Gerard knew that if _he_ were the overseer, he would have busted into that slave the first chance he had.

He turned over in his bed yet again, punching his pillow to make it more comfortable. _Miserable slaves._ Maybe he should have them all whipped so they remembered their places. His frustrations grew as thoughts of that untried slave underneath him kept winding through his mind. That slave would probably squeal like a swine when Gerard pushed his way into him, but moan for more before he pulled out. It would be a cold day in the Nether World before he would allow that slave to enjoy it, though. There were ways to prevent the ungrateful chattel from ever spilling seed.

As the thoughts of using his new slave consumed him, he considered having that little piece-of-ass brought to his bed before the whipping. If the slave pleased him well enough, maybe he would not whip _all_ the skin off his back _this day._

Then he remembered where he had left him last night… in the kennels. He would stink of the dogs and probably fill his bed with fleas. No, bringing the slave in here would be a bad idea. Besides, his slaves would think he was weak, and he could never have that!

That other slave wench sure wanted it bad enough last night. He could always call for her. Unfortunately, he had had to put that slave in her place as well. If he had not had that new slave on his mind, she would have had more than just a couple bruises to remind her that she did not run things. Thoughts of the stray cats he had skinned alive when he was just a lad came to mind, and Gerard wished he could do the same to that wench. If he called for her now, she would be getting what she wanted, and that just was not going to happen. _He_ was the master! He would take care of her another day.

For now, he would just wait until they returned home from the whipping post, and allow his anticipation to build for the new, untouched slave. He would leave the slave hanging off the side of the wagon and use him there. It would be unthinkable to ruin his good bed linen on a bloody slave that had fallen from favor.

Rolling over yet again, Gerard realized the futilely of getting any more sleep and sat up. It was still dark, but the embers in the fireplace gave him enough light to find his way around his room. A headache was building behind his eyes, adding to his foul mood.

He slid on his pants from the night before and made his way out to the kitchen. Danielle was already there and directing the slaves as they prepared the days’ meals. When she looked up at him, her normal smile was absent from her face. Was he going to have problems with her as well?

“Master Gerard. Goodness, but you’re up early this morning. May I pour you a cup of coffee?” she asked, a small smile finally making its way to her face while she wrung her hands.

Maybe it was just the surprise of seeing him up so early. “Yes, with just a drop of that sweet cream the way you make it so well. You know I want to be able to taste the coffee,” he said. Adding a small compliment always kept slaves happy. He remembered learning that from his father, so long ago. It was also important to keep slaves on their toes; no good would come if all his slaves could read his moods. Therefore, when he finished speaking, he gave her a kind smile, even though kind was far from what he felt.

“Yes, master, I know.” Danielle made his coffee and set it in front of him. When she turned, she snapped at one of the girls kneading the bread, and then she threw some bacon into one of the pans that sat warming at the side of the stove.

It was rare for him to spend time in the kitchen; he did not want the slaves to think he was fraternizing with them. This morning he needed a distraction. Sitting alone in the dining room was not an option for him, so he sat at one of the tables in the kitchen.

He watched the slaves as they bustled around the kitchen. The chatter and laughter he usually heard when he stepped in here were missing, and everyone seemed on edge. Almost as though they knew about the incidents from last night, and did not approve of the way he handled them. “Danielle! Come here,” he ordered.

Danielle grabbed one of the slave girls walking by to oversee the bacon, and quickly came to him. If only all of his slaves were that obedient. “Yes, master?” she asked submissively.

“Why is everyone is so quiet in here this morning?” Gerard demanded.

Danielle began wringing her apron in her hands and looked as nervous as he had ever seen her. It was many moments before she answered, but he waited her out. “Master, the girls aren’t used to you sitting in here. They’re nervous, and afraid they might do something wrong to ruin your meals. That is all, master,” she stated with a slight tremor in her voice.

He was not sure if he believed her or not. All slaves lied to their masters, and now he did not know why he had bothered asking. On the other hand, the honor of having his presence among them probably would make them nervous. He grabbed his coffee mug and stood. “I am going to freshen up for the day. I shall expect a hot breakfast in the dining room when I finish.”

“Yes, sir, master. I will serve it to you myself, nice and hot. Thank you, master.” She fawned all over him, easing his suspicions of the atmosphere.

He headed toward the door and stopped. He did not need to fill his mind with more anticipation of what was to come later this day. “Have that arrogant slave that crept into my bed last night serve me. It is long past time she did some work around here,” he told Danielle with just a hint of a smile.

The look on her face told him that she did in fact know as to which slave he was referring. From Danielle’s expression, she did not approve of the little slap he had given the slave last evening, or anything he might do to the slave this morning. Gerard wondered just how many more of his slaves he would have to straighten out.

“Yes, master,” she replied, much more subdued than her previous words to him. With that, he returned to his bedroom, coffee in hand.

* * *

It was a beautiful morning; birds were singing, and the sun was just peaking over the horizon. Master Gerard did not notice any of that, though. Sweet thoughts of carrying out the promised punishment filled his head.

He had never looked forward to whipping one of his slaves as much as he did this one. He kept visualizing the red stripes crisscrossing the white, unscarred skin of the boy’s back. Anticipation made it difficult for Gerard to find enough air to breathe. He would make sure the slave had no fight left in him. The screams he would hear coming from the lad as the ‘runner’ brand touched his cheek would be music to his ears. The slave would obey him quickly after that. He would learn. When they returned home, he would bend him over and take him rough and hard. Just the thought of that had him stumbling over himself as he prepared to travel into town.

Gerard glanced at his reflection in the mirror on his bedroom wall, and he thought he looked very handsome in his light gray pants and dark gray long sleeved robe. He was still very fit for his age, although he wished he still looked the way he had ten years ago when he’d had a full head of hair. Even without it, he was still quite capable of attracting bed partners. While he was away, he’d had a couple different girls in his bed. Well, maybe he had paid for one of them, but it was a fine young piece all the same.

Brushing his finger down over his top lip, he considered whether he should grow a mustache like the one his father had worn. Looking closer, he found a stray hair growing out of his nostril. He grabbed it and quickly yanked it out. The sting left a tingle in his nose, and his eyes watered, but these were among the things all men of power had to do to keep up appearances.

Satisfied with his looks, he knew he would not have too much longer to wait before he could take his unruly slave into town. The law required that all whippings occurred at a time of day when other slaves could learn from the transgressions. For each moment he had to wait, his anticipation grew.

He left his bedroom, made his way to the dining room and sat at the head of the long table. There was a place setting waiting there for him already, while the other eleven seats remained empty. The sun shining through the windows onto the mahogany table brought out all the reds, tans, and darker browns in the wood. It also made the pain behind his eyes that much worse. Someone had set a large vase of fresh cut flowers on the stand under the window, filling the room with their fragrance. It was something Gerard normally would have enjoyed, but not this morning.

Moments later Kara entered with a platter from the kitchen, filled with meats and fruits. An urn already sat on the sideboard, ready for her to pour his coffee. She kept her head down, but Gerard could see the bruise on her cheek behind the hair hanging in her face. A smile formed on his lips at the sight.

Her hands shook, and the plates rattled as she placed them before her master. The noise irritated him. She could not even serve a table quietly. This was one worthless slave. Unable to contain himself any longer, he backhanded her so hard she ended up on the floor with a shriek. When she cowered on her knees and looked up at him, blood was running from her broken nose, and both eyes were already beginning to color. He felt a certain satisfaction looking down on her like that. “You are nothing but a useless slave. The place you hold should be one of silence! Slaves should be as the sprites, rarely seen, much less heard. Close those curtains and take your ass back out to the kitchen until I decide what to do with you.”

The slave girl quickly closed the curtains before she scrambled to leave the room, leaving a trail of blood drops in her wake. He just might have to take the skin off her hide anyway for getting bloodstains on the carpet, making him spend his hard-earned money on a new one. _Uppity slaves._

Taking a bite from a slice of crisp bacon, he imagined the screams that the slave in the kennels would make with each kiss of the whip. He wondered how many strokes it would take before blood ran down his back. Pushing the heel of his hand into his erection, he imagined taking that boy afterward, using only his blood as a lubricant. That would make his punishment even harsher as the blood dried and caused more drag and friction. He would teach that slave to obey him, by Aze!

* * *

Just as Gerard finished his breakfast, the sound of horses coming up his drive caught his attention. He could think of no one who would be visiting him this time of day. He would have to find out just who it was that had come calling uninvited and get rid of them right quick. Nothing was going to distract him from his plans today.

He personally opened the front door instead of waiting for a slave, and watched the carriage and the guard that followed close behind it until they came to a complete stop at his porch. The Monarch’s emblem on the carriage door caught him off guard. What was someone from the Royal House doing here? It was not as if anyone from the palace ever stopped by just to visit. Moreover, it was spring, and they collected their blasted taxes in the fall. As far as they knew, his taxes were paid. Well, what they did not know would not hurt them.

He watched as a dark man stepped down from the carriage. The man was fashionably dressed, in spite of his tonsured head and small chin beard. The man’s face was calm and expressionless, yet the man’s eyes caught Gerard’s attention. They were clear and steady, unafraid to look a man as important as Gerard was in the eye. The man seemed to be about Gerard’s height, but heavier, although he carried himself as if he were self-important. He did not remember ever seeing this man before, though, and had no idea as to who he was.

The guard was quickly off his horse and stood a few steps behind the man from the carriage. The guard was tall and reminded Gerard of a brick wall, both in build and smarts. The man had too many muscles to be very smart. He had very short, cropped hair, but other than being tall with a square chin, the only thing remarkable about him was how very powerful he looked.

“Gerard Argent?” the man from the carriage asked in a pleasant voice as he approached.

“I believe you have me at a disadvantage. Who might you be, and why are you here?” He had things he wanted to attend to. He did not have time for pleasantries.

“My name is Alan Deaton. Perhaps you have heard of me. I am head of the Council, and I am here on behalf of the security of the land. You have a new slave by the name of Stiles. It has become necessary for you to cede ownership of him over to the Crown.”

To hear that the man thought he could just waltz up here and take what belonged to Gerard was unheard of! Gerard did not want to waste his important time talking to this man who was clearly beneath him. For all the years he had managed to short the ruler on his taxes, it was obvious to Gerard that he was smarter, and therefore better, than the young, upstart Monarch was. “Why should I give you something of mine, especially something I am not finished with? I believe you have worn out your welcome. It is time for you to leave, young man.”

Deaton, on the other hand, looked calm and composed. He broke the eye contact that he had held with Gerard and looked around. “Well. It appears as though the taxes you have paid for the last few years have been severely underrated. It is obvious that you have far greater assets than you have been reporting. Perhaps I should begin an audit today to determine just how far in arrears you have gotten, what the interest for that shortage would be and accurately appraise the amount you owe the sovereign.”

Gerard could not believe what he was hearing. What had started out as a day filled with beautiful expectations was turning into the worst day of his life! He had to put a stop to this, and quickly. “Now, you just wait one moment. I paid my taxes. I am not in arrears in any way. Who do you think you are to come in here and threaten me on my own property?” He was not ready to release his land to the crown any more than he was ready to give it to his money-loving niece, Victoria. That gold-grabbing woman was already trying to take her share of his property, instead of waiting until he passed on.

Deaton turned to the silent guard, who handed him some papers. The councilor began studying them. “Your taxes... Yes. From what I see, and according to what you have paid since Lord Peter came into power, you will be lucky if the land itself and everything sitting on it will cover the back taxes and fines, instead of your head.” The man stopped speaking and looked up from his papers. “Now, we can forget the past, and you can turn the ownership of the slave in question over to the Monarch. Unless you prefer I begin my audit now?”

Gerard stood in stunned silence for a moment. He had a slave that needed to be whipped, and then used afterward. He needed to do that more than he needed to breathe. He could not let this man take that from him. “I will deliver the slave to you tomorrow morning. I have an agenda that needs attending to today.”

“Quite frankly, neither the ruler nor I care about your agenda. You will call for Stiles to attend us now, or I will begin my audit immediately,” the councilor stated calmly.

How was it possible for this man to foil his plans so completely? What could he do to correct this? Perhaps if this palace representative realized the slave was worthless, he would consider another slave in his stead. “The slave you want is trouble. I gave him an order last night, but he and another slave decided to do what they wanted, instead. The troublemaker you want ran, so I have him locked up out in the kennels, waiting for a trip to the whipping block.”

“Then let us go out to the kennels and take a look at this troublemaker,” the other man quietly requested.

By this time, the giant of a guard who stood silently beside the councilor had not said a word, but his expression spoke volumes. Gerard had no option at this point except to escort Deaton and his guard out to the kennels. The whole way there, he tried to think of more ways to make it possible to achieve his plans for the day. He simply had to find a way to discourage the man from taking the slave. “I have a reputation I need to keep among the slaves. I need to whip him as an example. Otherwise, word will get out to the slaves, and they will think they can all do as they please.”

Alan was silent for much of the walk as they continued toward the kennels. They were almost to their destination when the bald man finally turned to him. “What was it that you ordered the slave to do before he ran?”

“I merely told him to get cleaned up and be waiting for me in my bed. An honor such as that is certainly no reason to run. He is presumptuous and needs to be put in his place.”

He could swear the corners of other man’s mouth almost turned into a smile with that information. That son of a razorback was laughing at him. “And what do you find so funny?” Gerard demanded.

The other man looked at him with a straight face. “Pardon me?”

Gerard was sure he had seen the man smile, and would love to bust the counselor in the jaw were it not for the guard. Further, he was not sure the satisfaction would have been great enough to offset losing everything. He just knew that a pompous man like this agent would be petty and audit him if he did that.

They arrived at the kennel, and one of the boys was cleaning inside the pen while another was filling bowls of food for each of the dogs. “Pull the slave out from the whelping kennel with Sara and bring him here,” Gerard ordered.

They followed the slave back to Sara's kennel. Gerard watched as the boy dragged the filthy slave from the shelter and pushed him to his feet. There was straw sticking in his cropped hair, his eyes were lost in two pools of purple, and there were fleabites and bruises all over his body. Even dirty, the naked lad sent pure lust to his nethers. So focused was he that Gerard did not realize the man standing next to him was agitated until he noticed the hardness of the man’s voice.

“What is the meaning of this? It looks as if he were beaten! Where are the boy’s clothes? What kind of master are you to leave someone you are responsible for, outside in a kennel all night, hurt, naked and bound?”

_Who in the Dark Gods did he think he was? He did not have to listen as this pretentious bully berated him, did he? It is not as if the slave was important. He was only property, and worthless at that._ “Untie him and bring him out here,” he told the kennel slave, doing his best to rein in his temper.

Alan took his heavy focus off him and turned it on the slave. “I am here for Lord Derek. You met him yesterday, yes?” he asked as the slave rubbed at the rope marks burned into his wrists before covering himself.

The slave’s eyes flicked toward Gerard before locking on the delegate. “Yes, sir. I met him at the town square,” he answered hoarsely.

“He asked something of you. Were you able to do as he asked?”

The slave’s neck and face began to turn pink before he answered. “Yes sir.”

“What is this? Are you keeping secrets from your master now, boy? You talked to the Lord, and did not inform me about it? What did he ask you to do?” Gerard demanded in his slow deliberate voice. _His own slave kept secrets from him! What was the world coming to?_

The council member turned and glared at him. “If the Lord wishes to have words with another, those words would be his business. Have this boy made presentable so I can take him with me. While your servants are doing that, you can bring his papers so that I can leave sooner, rather than later. ”

“You told me you were taking him for the Crown, on behalf of the security of the land. You just told him you were here for the Monarch’s brother. Now which is it?” Gerard demanded.

“If it is on behalf of the land’s security, it would be for the Crown, would it not? I am nearing the end of my patience. Your lack of concern over the Monarch’s wishes borders on treason!”

_Treason?_ “No! I only wanted clarification, that is all. But while he is mine, I should have the right to carry out the punishment that I have promised him.” He knew he would lose everything if the bastard charged him with treason.

“You will release him to me immediately and save yourself the coins you would have spent on his punishment. Consider yourself lucky to be rid of him if he is as much trouble as you say,” Alan urged in a reasoning voice.

Gerard glared at the agent and felt more powerless than he had ever felt in his life. It infuriated him that he could not keep the promise he had made to the troublesome slave last night. He would not get the chance to whip him and have him branded for running. Worst of all, he would not get the chance to break into that tight sweetness.

The councilor turned his focus back on the slave. “I need to ask, do you wish to leave with me?”

The slave’s eyes flickered toward Gerard again before looking at the bald man. “Yes, sir, I do, sir. Very much so. As soon as possible, if not yesterday already. Please, even.” He had taken one hand away from covering himself to punctuate his words.

The agent half smiled and then turned from the slave to glare at Gerard again. “Now, would you hurry, please, and have some servants’ help Stiles get cleaned up and dressed while you sign his papers so we can leave?”

The kennel boy appeared with a blanket in his hands, which the naked slave wrapped tightly around himself, much to Gerard’s disappointment. “Take him back to the well behind the kitchen. You can help him clean up there,” he told the slave, then headed on a slightly different path back to the house. He had to dig up the papers for that blasted slave. He could not believe all the problems the slave had caused him in such a short time. At this point, he only wanted to get the Monarch’s agent off his property before he noticed anything else amiss.

The councilor and the guard stayed with the slave while Gerard tromped back to the house and headed for his office. He was enraged! All the plans he had made in anticipation of breaking that boy; thwarted! He opened the lock-box in his desk and plucked the parchment for that worthless slave off the top. He spread it flat on his desk and stewed over it before he dipped his quill in the ink and signed his name on the seller’s line.

By the time he walked back outside with the ownership papers in hand, he could hear the agent talking to the slave, who was now wearing a tunic and pants. “There is no need to thank me, young man. Save your thanks for Lord Derek. Go to the carriage now. Close the door and stay inside," the agent told him. The slave quickly slipped through Gerard’s fingers as he followed those directions.

The agent held his hand out for the papers. When Gerard handed them over, the man opened them up and studied them before slipping them into his pocket. “Very good,” he said and turned toward the carriage, the guard following close behind him.

“Wait,” Gerard said, “I expect something in writing that states I am caught up on my taxes. You are taking my slave. It is only right that I should get something in return.”

The Monarch’s representative bore holes into Gerard with a look. After many moments of saying nothing, he finally broke his silence with a calm and reasoning tone. “I believe we are finished here. I advise you to think very hard when you pay your taxes this year.” He abruptly turned and walked down the path to the waiting carriage. He climbed inside with the slave, and the guard mounted his horse. The driver cracked the whip over the horses’ heads and they galloped off his property and down the road with a trail of dust flying behind them.

Gerard watched them until the dust settled. He could not come to terms with the way the agent prevented him from carrying out his promise. _Not today,_ he told himself. _But this is not finished! My time will come._ With that, he went looking for the bed wench that helped ruin his plans last night. He was going to see some blood flow and get his erection taken care of, even if it killed her!


	4. Changes

[](http://s1097.photobucket.com/user/TJRGlitter/media/Legacy%20of%20the%20Dragons/dividerChanges.png.html)

Stiles climbed through the open door of the carriage displaying the same emblem as the one Lord Derek had been in the day before. _Had it really only been the day before? It seemed much longer than that!_

Inside, soft suede padded the bench seats, and it seemed almost a foreign comfort after his night in the kennels. Stiles wedged himself into a corner, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. Although it was difficult to breathe after the beating he had taken, Stiles made himself as small as possible while he waited, afraid someone would change their mind and he would have to stay. Lord Derek may have ordered him removed from Master Gerard’s grasp, but he still feared that something would happen to prevent him from leaving this place. 

His dream as a child was to serve the one who pulled him, and it had grown into an obsession over the years. It felt like the older he got, the more people grated on him with their push. He had hungered for a pull. Remembering again how Lord Derek’s enticing tug had felt, Stiles was not sure he deserved something so wonderful, yet he yearned for it all the same. The physical reaction he’d had made him desire to serve the Lord in a way he had never imagined doing before! He wondered if that was how Lord Derek planned to use him. 

The door to the carriage opened, and the bald man entered. He latched the door and slapped the inside wall as he sat down. There was a jerk as the horses began running down the lane, removing Stiles from that place. _Thank the Good Spirits!_ Stiles breathed in relief. He had no desire to look out the window as they left. 

Instead, he looked at the man sitting across from him. His face was kind, and he had a small smile as he laid his eyes on Stiles. “Hello, Stiles. I did not get the chance to properly introduce myself earlier. My name is Alan Deaton. I am head of the Council, and what I do is take care of legal matters for our monarch, Lord Peter, and his nephew, Lord Derek.” 

“My thanks to you, Mister Deaton,” Stiles responded. The gratitude he felt for being away from that cruel master was immense. 

“The Lords had hoped to have you safely in the keep before the setting of the sun last night. I regret that I was unable to get here any earlier than I did, although it appears that I was in time to stop things from becoming any worse. You took quite a beating for Lord Derek. Rest assured that he will want to heal you and remove your pain once we arrive at the palace. 

“It is a lengthy ride, and if we are lucky, we should arrive in time for noon meal. I have been authorized to answer questions you may have along the way. Do not be afraid to ask if there is anything you wish to know.” 

There was something that Stiles desperately wanted confirmed. “Yes, sir. Can you tell me, do I belong to Lord Derek now?” Stiles asked after only a slight pause. 

“You do, my lad. All details of your papers were taken care of in Lord Derek’s name.” 

Stiles looked away and tried to compose himself. His dream had come true, and he now belonged to the one who had a pull. The extreme changes in his luck over the last day were enough to unman him, and brought him close to tears with the relief he felt. Taking a shaky breath as deep as he could, he wrapped his arms around his ribs and exhaled. His own smell disgusted him. He turned back to the man seated across from him. The man, Stiles realized, had no push at all, and had given him permission to ask questions as if he were a free man. 

“Is there any possibility of a real bath at the end of this ride?” he asked, and scratched at his head before again wrapping his arm around his ribs. He probably had fleas, on top of smelling bad. He did not want to greet his Master in this manner! 

Mister Deaton smiled as he spoke. “I am sure every bit of that place will be washed off as soon as we arrive at the palace.” 

He remembered what business the sorcerer’d had at the town square when Stiles first laid eyes on him. “Lord Derek collected a slave for the Monarch. Why are you here for me, instead of Lord Derek?” 

Eyes the color of rich, dark ale met his. “Normally, he would have been here. I was told that he’d had a very difficult time returning with the girl you just mentioned. Lord Derek had been pushed to near exhaustion. He wished to join me in retrieving you, but the Monarch had refused Lord Derek’s request to come himself, and insisted he stay and rest to regain some of his strength.” 

_He wanted to retrieve me himself!_ Stiles smiled at the thought, wishing Master Derek was with them now. While he would love to bask in his Master’s pull, he was grateful for the lack of any push upon him. He felt as if he were truly able to relax for the first time in what felt so very long. 

“Would you like to know what the Lords are like?” Mister Deaton asked. 

Stiles thought about the pull again and knew it did not matter what Master Derek was like. He would serve the man with his whole heart, no matter what. Soon, he would be doing just that, which was everything he ever wanted. 

The Monarch was a different story, though. Surely, he had been involved with Stiles removal from Master Gerard, so he owed the man his loyalty, at the very least. What would a man of his status be like, though? A man with the weight of the land on his shoulders must be serious and brusque. He would most likely have a push so strong that Stiles would feel it as soon as he walked into the keep! It would probably be even worse than Master Gerard’s abrasive force! 

While Stiles was grateful that a free man was willing to answer his questions, he still felt uncomfortable asking them. Some things, though, he needed to know. “Will I have to serve the Monarch?” 

Mister Deaton chuckled softly. “We all serve the Monarch to one degree or another. They did not take the time to fill me in on everything before I left, so I do not have the specifics as to what your role will be.” 

He thought back to Mister Deaton’s original question. “What is the monarch like?” 

“The monarch is relatively new to his position, but he is very smart and caring. He loves this land and all his people. When it comes to disputes, he is impartial and very fair, although when criminals stand before him he is harsh. His nephew, Lord Derek, helped him grow into his seat of power, which he seems to have done quite nicely. Lord Peter is not often seen roaming through the halls of the castle, but if you serve his nephew, you will probably see more of him than most people do.” 

He had hoped never to have to feel the assaulting push of another man with a powerful position. Stiles sighed. At least he would be near Lord Derek and his sweet, sweet pull! 

Stiles wanted to lose himself in thoughts of that pull and the effects it had on him, but not with Mister Deaton watching him. He could feel heat rising to his face as he tried to turn his thoughts elsewhere.

“What is it like living at the palace?” he asked when nothing else came to mind. 

“I live in town, so I do not know what living in the castle would be like. There are many who reside there, though, not to mention all the town’s folk and the important delegates who visit. The Ruling Council adjoins there weekly to remain up to date on the problems that arise and to find a way to prevent those problems from reoccurring. The palace’s official name is the Sertonan Keep.” 

Stiles closed his eyes and laid his head against the side of the carriage, imagining what life would be like at the keep. While he was sure that he would never fit in at a palace, he would be serving Master Derek, and he would do everything in his power to hold the man’s interest! 

“My apologies, you must be tired after the abuse you suffered. Why do you not lie down and try to sleep until we get you to your new home?” 

Stiles opened his eyes to see the sincerity in Mister Deaton’s request. Stiles was sure he would not be able to sleep, but he scooted down on the cushioned seat anyway, and tried to find a position that did not hurt. He pillowed his head in one arm, and wrapped the other protectively around his ribs. It was not long before dreams of a man with hypnotic eyes and an undeniable pull, a pull strong enough to make life beautiful, filled his sleep. 

* * *

Stiles awoke with a start when the carriage came to a sudden stop. He locked eyes with Mister Deaton, and the man almost looked nervous. There was a shift in the carriage as the driver climbed down and opened the door. 

“Sir, there is a tree blocking the road. It is a good thing we were not striving for speed, or I would never have been able to stop the horses in time. I will need a hand moving it. Do you want the guard to help me?” 

“No, we need him to continue protecting the carriage. I shall give you a hand,” Mister Deaton replied as he rose to step out. 

Stiles rose to join them, but the bald man put his hand out to stop him. “Stay here. My orders are to make sure you are safe.” 

“But I can help,” Stiles began to say when he was cut off. 

“Thank you, but I must insist. Stay inside with the door shut.” With that, Mister Deaton closed the door behind him. 

Stiles felt confused and helpless. He opened the panel and looked out to see trees surrounding them. He could not understand why Mister Deaton did not send him out to help move the obstruction, but he was relieved just the same. He was in a lot of pain. 

With each breath he took, it felt as if knives stabbed into his chest, and it was so difficult to get enough air. The pounding he had taken the night before had left his face and stomach throbbing with each beat of his heart. He felt weak as he ever had, but all the same, he knew he should have been out there helping. 

Stiles tried to watch the men through the pane, but he could see very little. He listened to the sounds they made as they struggled with the tree. Heat and moisture hung heavy in the thick woods, and Stiles soon found it even more difficult to breathe than it already was. After what felt like a very long time, leastwise, more time than what Stiles thought it should take before Mister Deaton opened the door. The man’s hands were dirty, and he had wood chips on his clothes. He sat back in his seat and closed his eyes with a sigh. Stiles could tell the man was unaccustomed to such work, and that he was exhausted, but Stiles hoped he could learn something. 

“Sir, may I ask a question?” 

Mister Deaton opened his eyes, and locked them onto Stiles. “You have my permission to ask me anything, anytime. What would you like to know?” he asked with a tired, reassuring look. 

“Why would you dirty your fine clothes when you have a slave to clear the road for you?” 

“Do you remember me saying that Lord Derek had some problems returning to the keep?” 

Stiles nodded as the other man continued his explanation. “The Monarch was afraid that I would have difficulties returning with you, also. My orders were to make haste to get to you, but to use caution in returning, and above all, assure your safety. That is why we have a guard with us. When the driver said a tree had fallen across the road, I was afraid it might be highwaymen causing trouble. That is why I went out to help, instead of you or the guard. Apparently, the wind kicked up, and that was what toppled the tree.” 

Suddenly, there were shifts in the carriage as the driver climbed into his seat, followed by a jerk as the horses began to move forward. Stiles observed Mister Deaton as he closed his eyes and made himself comfortable. 

Stiles looked out the window as the trees passed before closing the panel again. When he glanced back at Mister Deaton, it appeared that the man had fallen asleep. Now Stiles had a head full of questions that he could not ask. What type of problems had troubled his new Master? Was he unharmed? Why would Stiles’ safety be important when he was only a slave? He sighed and decided that nothing mattered more than the fact that he was on his way to the man with the pull! He carefully lay back down on the bench seat while protecting his ribs and closed his eyes. 

Stiles woke with a moan from the stabbing in his chest. The carriage felt as if someone were trying to push it over. Mister Deaton opened the panel to look out. They were no longer in the forest, but on a wide-open plain, and the wind was blowing hard. Instead of moisture and heat, sand and debris now filled the air. “We are getting close. If you look, you can just make out the spires of the castle through the blowing sand,” the man said, raising his voice so Stiles could hear him over the wind. 

Just then, a huge gust shook the carriage so hard, Stiles was sure the wheels had come off the ground. Mister Deaton’s worried expression calmed only slightly when the drivers slowed the horses down to a walk. It was a long, uncomfortable ride. Stiles spent it holding onto his ribs as he sat, gasping from the stabbing pain inside him every time another blast of wind hit the carriage. 

Mister Deaton would occasionally open the panel to see how far they had to go. By the time they approached the yellow stone fortification surrounding the keep, Stiles felt as if he were trying to breathe through water, and his mouth tasted of metal. He felt weaker than he ever had, wanting only to sleep, and paid no attention to his surroundings until Mister Deaton sat next to him and helped support him. 

It seemed to take forever to reach the castle wall. They stopped briefly for a guard before continuing. The wind was calmer inside the keep walls. As bad as Stiles felt, though, he did not notice. 

The horses pulled up to a spire at the end of one of the palace wings and stopped. A young man stood waiting for them. 

“Scott, we need your Master. Hurry!” Mister Deaton exclaimed when he opened the carriage door. 

Stiles knew he was dying. Mister Deaton kept reminding him to breathe; he was too weak to remember to do it on his own. His one dream was finally within his grasp, and he would not be around to live it. Mister Deaton sat with him in the carriage for what seemed a long time before he felt the pull. At least he would have that before he passed on to the other side. 

The carriage door opened, and hands gently framed his face. The pull intensified, and Stiles wanted only to float away with it. The pull eased his pains, and slowly, he realized he could hear someone mumbling something he could not make out. The pull, the enticement he remembered, calmed him, and he took a deep breath. 

_He could breathe!_ Stiles opened his eyes and looked at the face so close to his, eyes closed and saying something quietly. He released his ribs, and for the first time since the beating, they did not hurt. In fact, all of the aches and pains he had been ignoring were gone. 

It was not long after that realization that Master Derek stopped speaking quietly and opened his eyes. Stiles fell into the pools of brown, blue, gold and green; eyes like no others that he had ever seen. Stiles could read the relief in his Lord’s kind eyes as they gazed into his own. Pure emotion swirled in them, feelings of desire, caring and joy. Stiles wondered if Lord Derek, MASTER Derek, actually felt everything his eyes were displaying. 

Stiles also wondered if his Master felt the same rapture when they touched that was presently filling him. 

“Welcome to Sertonan Keep, Stiles,” Master Derek said to him quietly. 

“Master,” Stiles replied breathily. The hands on his face were making it difficult to breathe for completely different reasons now. 

His Master seemed to realize what his touch was doing to him, and slowly removed his hands. Stiles felt bereft at their loss, and then those beautiful eyes turned toward Mister Deaton. “What happened?”

“Apparently he took quite a beating, protecting his virtue for you,” Mister Deaton replied with a twinkle in his eyes. “The carriage ride here did him no favors, either.” 

His Master seemed relieved before his expression turned murderous. “I will rip that man’s throat out one day!” he exclaimed in a low growl. Then he sighed and seemed to release those thoughts. He turned back to Stiles. “We need to get you settled in, and then Deaton and I must return to the Monarch. You will be weak and tired for a while, being at death’s door as you were. Come, let us go inside.” 

Master Derek himself helped him out of the carriage. Stiles could not believe how much better he felt. It was as if the beating were nothing more than a dream. When he looked around, he saw that the sun was low in the sky and trees were blowing in a gentle breeze. _How much time had passed?_

The lad who had been waiting upon their arrival stepped up. At a glance, he seemed to be near the same age as Stiles, which was about 18 summers. His hair was curly and very dark brown and his skin had an olive complexion. He put his shoulder under Stiles arm and helped support him. Lord Derek held him up the same way on his other side. 

“Deaton, Peter awaits us. Please inform him I am on my way,” Master Derek said. 

“Stiles, it has been a pleasure getting to know you, and I am sure we will see one another soon!” With that, Mister Deaton held the door open so the three of them could enter, and then he bid them goodbye. 

“Stiles, this is my personal servant, Scott. He will assist you until you learn your way around the keep,” his Master explained as they walked. 

Stiles said nothing. The pull of his Master and the depth of his lethargy left him feeling dazed and wobbly. 

“My Lord,” Scott answered. “I have already asked the kitchen to send water up to his room so he can bathe, and also some food, since his journey has taken so long.” 

“Good thinking, lad.” 

Between the two stronger men, Stiles managed to stumble down a long corridor, and up two wide flights of stairs, stopping several times. At the first door on the third floor, they stopped again. 

“I leave you now in Scott’s capable hands. Scott, this is your new charge. Please look after him as you would myself. If you need me for anything, I will be with the Monarch. Either send a message or come running.” 

Master Derek slowly slid out from under Stiles shoulder, his hand lingering for a moment. “You rest. I will check on you as I am able.” Their eyes remained locked for many moments before the Lord finally turned and descended the flight of stairs they had just climbed. His shoulder-length hair looked like black silk, with the curls flowing gracefully behind him, and Stiles ached to run his fingers through it. He stood there and watched until his Master disappeared. 

Stiles worried that the lack of pain he had been experiencing was because of the pull, but as it faded, the pain did not return. He was just extremely tired and weak. It then occurred to Stiles that he felt no push from Scott, even with his touch. While it had been his theory that the harsher pushes came from those with power, it was not rare to find a fellow slave with a push. 

He suspected he looked confused, because Scott smiled and patted Stiles reassuringly on the shoulder. “I know this place must seem intimidating, but it will get easier. I promise! For now, let me get you settled in.” 

“So be it,” Stiles replied, feeling dazed. 

Scott opened the door and helped Stiles enter. “It must have been a rough trip for as long as it took for Mister Deaton to return with you. Now you shall have some good luck. You get to be in the same wing as the Lords. The largest rooms are in this wing,” 

“This is to be my room?” Stiles asked. “Who will I be sharing it with?” 

“No one. It is just for you,” Scott stated. 

Stiles stared at his new room with his mouth hanging open. It was huge for a mere slave. On the wall beside the door was a very large feather bed, piled high with covers that looked softer than anything Stiles had ever seen before. There was a storage chest at the end of the bed. An open closet was against the far wall, where tunics, shirts, pants and leggings filled it so full, they almost spilled out. Beside the closet was another, unopened door that he would have to explore later. Large, scenic tapestries hung on different walls around the room, adding color and warmth. Two tall, narrow windows filtered light in from the outside wall, although they were facing the wrong direction to see the sun at this time of day. A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace on the wall opposite of the closet, which warmed the room quite nicely. 

A large bathing tub sat in front of the hearth. Towels, brushes and tins of soap waited on the floor beside it. Other than where the tub sat, colorful carpets and fur pelts covered the floor. 

Stiles’ feelings alternated from being overwhelmed, to hopeful, and then excited as he looked around. For the first time since his arrival, he had a burst of strength and energy to go with his excitement. “Can I look outside?” he asked. 

Scott helped him to one of the windows and viewed the beautiful scene below. “You can just make out the town down there. That is Kelderbury, and the river beside it is the Kelder River. It has been hazy today, but on a clear day, you can sometimes see the Ancient Sea from here!” 

“The town comes right up to the castle walls,” Stiles noted. 

“The town has grown large because of the river docks. The markets can send their products to places like Tantarria, Busarius, and even as far as Colarium. When the ships return, they are full of wonderful things from those foreign regions. 

Stiles had always considered himself intelligent because he knew how to read, but he had never heard of any of those places before. 

A rap at the door preceded it opening to several young men with buckets of hot water. They poured them into the waiting tub, filling it with steaming water, and then they left. Stiles watched it all in stunned silence. A hot bath had just been poured for _him,_ a slave. Not understanding the special treatment, he was grateful all the same. 

“Now, allow me to help you get out of these rags and into a bath. By the time you are out, your food should be here.” 

After Stiles’ initial burst of energy upon seeing the room, it faded fast. Suddenly he felt so weak he could barely stand on his own. With Scott’s help, he was soon out of his clothes and slipping into the wonderfully hot water. Although he felt very out of place allowing Scott to wash his head and back, Stiles seriously did not have the energy to try to do it himself. When Stiles finished washing himself and stood, Scott poured a bucket of water over him to rinse, and quickly dropped the pail when Stiles almost fell, unable even to stand long enough to rinse. 

With a towel quickly thrown around him, Scott helped him out of the tub and over to the chair before the fire. Stiles sunk deeply into the cushions. He would have fallen asleep if Scott had just left him alone. Instead, Scott dried Stiles with another towel, and then slipped a nightshirt over his head and slippers on his feet. He pulled Stiles up to remove the towel from around him, and laid a warm, dry blanket over him. 

“Stiles,” Scott said, as he shook Stiles awake. 

Stiles opened his eyes to see Scott leaning down over him. Eyes that were as dark of a brown as Mister Deaton’s shone with either mischief or joy; Stiles did not know him well enough to discern which. It also seemed as though the other lad’s chin was crooked, it was difficult to tell as tired as he felt. 

“What?” Stiles mumbled. 

“You must be hungry. You could not have eaten since this morning. Food is here.” 

Now that he thought of it, Stiles felt starved. He tried to remember the last thing he had eaten, and it was dinner from the night before. A dinner he had lost with Master Gerard’s touch. 

A tray had been sitting on the small table beside the chair, which Scott picked up and sat on Stiles’ lap. When Scott removed the cover, the aroma of the meat and vegetables made Stiles’ mouth water. He moaned with his first bite; the food tasted even better than it smelled. This was by far the best meal Stiles had ever eaten. 

“I knew you would like this! The roast venison that cook makes has always been my favorite!” Scott exclaimed with a huge grin. 

Scott then rose, taking the platter lid with him, and allowed Stiles to devour his meal in private. The only time Scott returned to his side was to set a large mug of ale on the small table. 

When the platter and been reduced to crumbs and the mug empty, Scott set them out of the way and helped Stiles into bed. “Lord Derek said to rest, and there is no better place than in bed. You have had a long day. Tomorrow shall come soon enough. Sleep well, Stiles.” 

“My gratitude, Scott.” That was all Stiles had the energy to say. He heard Scott gathering things together, but he was asleep long before the door had closed behind him. 

* * *

The rap on his door woke Stiles from some very sweet dreams. He began to roll over, and knew the blankets over him were too soft to be his. His first fear was that he was in Master Gerard’s bed. Opening his eyes, his confusion grew for he did not recognize anything. Stiles rose to one elbow, and slowly things from the previous evening came back to him. Just as he realized how bright the room was, and that it had to be nigh on high sun, there was another knock on his door. 

Stiles scrambled to get out of bed. His feet caught in the covers and he landed on his back with an oof. Fighting off the blankets, he stood, and was surprised to find it so chilly in the room. He hustled toward the door to answer it, and one of the smaller pelts under his feet slid. With an almost futile attempt to not land on his ass, his arms flew about like a drunken bird before he caught his balance. 

He finally made it to the door and pulled it open. Scott was standing on the other side. “Scott? Why did you knock? ‘M a slave just like you.” Knocking on a slave’s door was just unheard of to Stiles. 

Scott smiled, and looked thoroughly happy. “Good morning! Also, if you had not found your way out of bed soon, it would have been good afternoon. Remember? Lord Derek told me to treat you as I would treat him, so I knocked. He asked me to take you down for noon meal. ‘Said that food was more important for you than sleep at this point.” 

“You really took his words literally,” Stiles said. 

“Only the way they were meant,” Scott returned, still grinning. 

Stiles looked toward the light coming in windows. “Is Master angry with me?” 

“Angry? No, but you must have been at death’s door for the number of times he came up here to check on you,” Scott explained. 

“Master Derek checked on me?” Just the thought of his Master doing that confused Stiles. 

“Yes. He had business to attend to, or I am sure he would have come to wake you himself.” 

Stiles understood why his Master was important to him, but the importance of him to his Master confused him. In one way, it was a relief to know that the man he was destined to serve cared enough to check on him. However, why would his Master be so concerned that he would check on him more than once? Was there more to it, or only because he had been at death’s door? About that time, Stiles stepped on one of the few places that the stone floor was not covered. “Holy Ven! How is it that the floor so cold?” 

“Well, I believe it is like this. The evenings here can get quite chilly. Lord Derek harvested that chill, and instilled it into this portion of the castle. That would be the reason he has me keep all the hearths lit. It used to be very warm, the way other wings of the keep are. Now, unless someone steps off the carpets barefoot, like you just did, it is comfortable. Anything else you want to know, I will answer on the way downstairs to eat. Allow me to find you something to wear, and we can go.” 

Stiles stood stunned with Scott’s answer about the cold floor. He wondered if Scott was serious or pulling on his leg. He shook his head, knowing that in time he would learn the truth. 

After he used the chamber pot and washed his hands and face with the water in the ewer, Stiles suffered Scott’s assistance in dressing. 

Soon they were out the door. At the stairs, they met a slim girl with long, dark brown hair, coffee colored eyes, and a tiny, elven chin. She was at least half a hand shorter than Scott was, and had a pretty smile. 

“Stiles, this is Allison. She is one of Lord Peter’s personal assistants,” Scott explained. “Allison, this is Stiles. He just arrived yesterday, and I am sure he is starving. I know I am.” Hearing those words accompanied by the thought of food made Stiles’ stomach rumble. 

Allison’s snicker followed the stomach growl. “Good day to you, Stiles. It is good to meet you.” 

“My thanks, and good day to you, also,” Stiles answered. Then he returned his focus to Scott. He saw the other man’s eyes shone with emotion, the way he stared at Allison, and his absolutely sappy smile. 

“Allison, would you like to join us? Stiles missed first meal. I planned on taking him to the guards’ hall,” Scott shared. 

Allison’s return smile spoke volumes; she was as smitten with Scott as he was with her. “Yes, I would like that! Thank you!” 

When they reached the second landing, Scott pointed down the passageway, where Stiles could see two guards standing by one of the doors. “This landing is where the Lords’ rooms are.” 

Stiles could feel a slight draw, and knew Master Derek was in one of those rooms. He closed his eyes to bask in the soothing seduction. A smile creased his face as he thought about the strength of his Master’s pull when they touched. 

They continued down the stairs, and Stiles started thinking. “Are we allowed to eat with the guards?” 

“Yes. Guards eat whenever they get the chance, so the cooks always have food warming for them. You will have to remember that for when you are hungry between meals,” Scott shared. 

“Many of the residents and servants eat there because the regular meal times are not always convenient for them,” Allison explained. 

They walked down a long corridor, Scott and Allison having whole conversations with only their eyes. Stiles sighed quietly, feeling as though he was intruding on them. 

Stiles could see a large hall full of people ahead of them, and was surprised that he did not feel a push from that direction. He took a deep breath and smiled at the very good change in his life. 

They turned through an opening on the right to a room full of tables. “Unlike the guards’ hall that always has food ready, this is the main dining hall, and the kitchen serves meals here three times a day. This is where ruling heads dine with the Monarch for celebrations. Most of us who reside or work at the keep dine here,” Allison explained as they continued through the large room. 

They stepped through an entrance to another, smaller room with many long, wooden tables. Stiles could see a set of doors leading outside at the far end of this area, as well as the kitchen off to the right. They headed for the kitchen access, where a shelf was set up with bowls, goblets, knives and spoons. At a table near the main hearth, there were pitchers of ale and a large platter with loaves of warm, yeasty bread, while a kettle of meaty stew stayed warm beside the fire. 

Stiles tore off half a loaf of bread to sop up the bowl of thick stew he held, and Allison poured him a goblet of ale while Scott ladled up his own stew. Then they returned to the other side of the room, away from the guards that sat closest to the food. 

Allison and Scott sat across from him, but Scott barely touched his own food as they smiled at each other. Stiles’ stomach growled, so he dug in. He ate almost too fast to savor the quality of the food, which was far better than he was accustomed to. Almost halfway through his meal, he felt it: a pull so sweet that he had to close his eyes. He quickly turned to look over his shoulder, but only saw a group of guards walking in from the grounds. He caught a set of blue eyes looking at him amongst the troop, but whomever they belonged to quickly looked away. He not only lost sight of the man with the blue eyes, the pull faded and then was gone. 

“Is something wrong, Stiles?” Scott asked. 

He turned back toward the table again. “Master Derek was here. I could feel him,” he answered. 

Allison and Scott both looked surprised. There was a smirk on his face when Scott began talking. “I am sure that is not possible. He said he would be meeting with his uncle and Mister Deaton. It did not sound like they would be finished anytime soon.” 

Disappointment filled him as the result of not seeing his Master. Stiles sat, feeling boneless and distant. “Do you know what Master Derek’s plans are for me?” 

“Actually, no. I was only told to take good care of you,” Scott shared. 

Stiles rose and ladled himself another bowl of the meaty stew. He ate this one slower, since the first bowl had taken the edge off his hunger. The food was delicious and filling, and he knew he was very lucky to be eating such wonderful fare. 

Sated, Stiles finished the last of his ale, sat back and burped rather loudly. All three of them laughed at that. 

“You look like you could use a nap now,” Scott told him with a chuckle. 

“Actually, I wish I could take a nap.” 

“There’s no reason you can’t! Lord Derek said you were still recovering from his healing. Food and sleep are the best things for that,” Scott explained. 

With that, they continued down the corridor and to the stairs. “I can find my way back from here, if you two want to spend some time together,” Stiles offered. 

Scott’s eyes lit up. “You mean that, brother?” 

“Yes. Go, have some time to yourselves. I will be fine on my own.” 

Scott and Allison looked at each other, then to Stiles. “Thank you, Stiles,” Allison told him. 

“I shall be up to check on you soon,” Scott added. 

Scott grabbed Allison’s hand, and they ran down one of the corridors together. Stiles turned and climbed up the steps. He paused at the second floor landing, and could feel just a hint of a tug from his new Master. He smiled and continued up to his room. 

Servants had cleaned up his room while he had eaten. Physically and mentally exhausted, there was nothing he needed to do more than fall asleep in that huge, comfortable bed. He went to the closet to hang his clothes and find something he could sleep in. His head no sooner hit the pillow, and he was asleep. 

* * *

Stiles woke to a tug so sweet that his fatigue fell away from him. He rose from bed and quickly donned the clothes he had worn earlier. Stepping closer to the door beside the closet, the pull increased. 

Slowly, he opened the door. He was surprised to find a staircase leading down, instead of a room. Taking the steps slowly, he made his way carefully in the dark, his fingers dragging lightly against the walls. At the bottom, Stiles found another door, and _knew_ his Master was just beyond it. The draw, the _seduction,_ enchanted him. He reveled in the sensations that wiped away everything but pleasure. He did not know if he should enter that room, but he did not want to leave the intense feelings that rained over him in waves. 

“Come in, Stiles.” Master Derek’s voice rang through the door. 

Opening it, Stiles saw his Master stretched out in an overstuffed chair beside the hearth. He was almost lying in it with his legs sprawled out in front of him. Stiles could not help but drink him in, beautiful as he was. 

“You can feel me, too,” Stiles said as he eased into the room. 

Master Derek rose, their eyes locked the whole time. A cock of an eyebrow was the only answer he received. 

“Master,” Stiles said almost breathlessly as the other man approached. He realized Master Derek was a few fingers taller than he was as he stared up into the sorcerer’s eyes. The colors in them almost seemed to swirl. He dropped his gaze to his Master’s lips, and then licked his own. He remembered that the Lord had asked him how he felt about being a bed slave for him, and felt more reckless than ever. That was something he wanted, badly. He was nervous because of his inexperience, although his fervor more than made up for it. He leaned in to kiss his Master. 

His master took him by the chin. “You have a lot of spirit to just kiss someone. Is this something you have done often?” his Master asked. 

While the physical touch had increased the feelings of the pull and the reactions Stiles' body had, the question was like a pail of cold water thrown over him. Stiles was suddenly afraid. He had gone too far, been too familiar with his Master. He nervously raised his eyes to meet the colorful ones that locked with his. “No, Master. You would have been the first person I have ever kissed,” Stiles confessed. 

His Master’s eyes darkened and emotions flew across his face too fast for Stiles to read. A thrill went through him, and he licked his lips again as Master Derek leaned in, gently rubbing their lips together. A tongue flicked across his lower lip, tickling, teasing, until Stiles opened for it. A light, searching sweep of his Master’s tongue slid behind his front teeth, then across the roof of his mouth, sending blood to his nethers like never before. His master’s mouth was as sweet as honey and was nectar for Stiles’ soul. Master Derek kissed him deeply; his beard was a pleasant tickle. Then his master slowly pulled back, still holding his chin in his hand. 

“That was your first kiss?” Master Derek asked. 

Stiles breathed heavily as he answered. “Yes, Master.” 

“Was it to your liking?” 

“Very much so. Can we do that again?” Stiles asked. 

The hand dropped away from Stiles’ chin as Master Derek leaned in a little. Stiles leaned in the rest of the way, wrapping his arms around the muscular man’s waist as their lips met. One of his Master’s hands cupped the back of Stiles' head, the other rubbed his back as they slid together; feet interwoven and bodies touching all the way up. Wrapped in his Master’s arms, surrounded by his pull, kissing him, was the best experience Stiles had ever had. Blood left his head and filled his groin. When he ground his hips forward, he could feel that his Master was reacting the same way. Except…

Master Derek broke the kiss and pushed Stiles away. His hands slid down Stiles' arms to grab his hands, and brought them to his lips with a kiss to each. “We must stop,” his Master said simply. 

“Master, did I do something wrong?” Stiles asked breathlessly, confusion filling him. 

A sad smile filled the Lord’s face. “No, I could ask for nothing better. But stop we must.” 

“I thought you wanted me as a bed slave,” Stiles said, still confused. 

The sadness remained in his Master’s eyes. “I want you for much more than that. You must be tested first,” he said simply. 

“Test me then, Master, and I shall surely pass.” 

He brought Stiles' hands to his lips again before he spoke. “I am sure you shall pass, and that is why we must stop.” 

That made absolutely no sense to Stiles. “Then tell me what to do, and I will fail for you, Master.” .

Master Derek sighed and dropped his hands. “I prefer that my servants call me Lord, not Master,” he answered, not clearing anything up for Stiles at all. 

Stiles blinked and tried to make sense of the conversation. Giving up, he decided to try to make his own thoughts on the matter clear. “You are my lord. That is a title you own. You are also the man I will follow and serve to the best of my ability: my Master. Above all else, you are _my_ Master, and to me, that is a far greater title than lord is. While I have had other masters, you are the one I have sought and waited for. If you do not like the term, I will forgo it. However, know that in my mind, you shall always be Master.” 

He looked into the other man’s eyes, and they were dark; desire filled his expression. Master Derek wrapped one hand around the back of Stiles’ neck. The next thing Stiles knew, a perfect set of lips had claimed his mouth, kissing him with a hunger that matched his own. His Master teased his lips until Stiles opened for him, which caused him to want more. Their tongues danced. Stiles gave as much as he took. The kiss went on, consuming them both in a passion burning hotter than fire. 

Too soon for Stiles, his Master broke off the kiss. He looked deep into Stiles’ eyes, as if he were gazing deep inside Stiles. "You need to go back to your room, now. You have no idea how precarious my control is,” he said quietly. His voice was hoarse and low. 

His Master’s eyes were almost black, and he had the look of a starving man eyeing a feast he could not have. He had to know that Stiles desired him just as much! “Master, what I said in the town square was true. I will never deny you! Allow me the honor of pleasing you.” 

Those words seemed to affect his Master greatly. It was many moments before he responded. “You may not deny me, but will you obey me? Or must I turn you over my knee?” his Master asked with a raised eyebrow and smirk. 

Visions of lying across his Master’s lap, pants down with his Master’s hand coming down across his ass almost brought Stiles to climax right there. “If that is your wish, Master,” he replied breathily. 

The Lord’s demeanor suddenly changed, as if he just remembered something. He became serious and stern. “You need to go back to your room before I ruin everything. Go, now.” 

That was the last thing Stiles wanted to hear. "Yes, Master. I will obey.” He edged toward the door, his eyes on his Master, hoping the man would call him back. "You know I will serve you in any way you wish.” Stiles spoke quietly as he cracked opened the door. 

"Pray, go upstairs, and close both doors. Go while you still can. Obey me before the temptation becomes too great,” he said quietly. 

His Master’s words confused Stiles. Why would a lord ever refuse temptation? He stepped through the door and pulled it shut after him, slowly climbing the dark stairwell to his room. By the time he was in his room, the pull had vanished. His Master must have left the room below. 

Stiles stripped and climbed into the soft feather bed. He could not help but take care of the pressure that had built up. As he stroked his swollen member, he thought about the kiss they shared, still feeling the tingle where his master’s beard scratched his face and the look in his Master’s eyes. Stiles was sure he was wanted, although he was not sure why he’d been sent away. 

It did not take much to relieve his erection, and he wiped up the mess with his leggings, too close to sleep to do more. He shoved his pants off the bed and could not believe his life had changed so much, so quickly. He had never felt so happy and contented in his life. He was no longer searching; he had found his true Master. 

Stiles snuggled down into his covers and thought of Master Derek: the look in his eyes, the feel of his pull and the touch of his hand. Stiles wondered idly if his Master had gone to his room and taken things in hand, as he had, of if he had others to take care of him that way. While he wished he could be the one to take care of his Master, he hoped more than anything that his Master was thinking of him.


	5. The Monarch

[](http://s1097.photobucket.com/user/TJRGlitter/media/Legacy%20of%20the%20Dragons/dividerTheMonarch.png.html)

Early morning light bled into his room as he stretched. Stiles snapped his head toward the sound of knocking on his door. Throwing the covers off, he forced himself from the warm, comfortable bed and rose to answer it. Just like the day before, Scott stood on the other side.

“Brother! Stop with the rapping on my door. We are equals; just enter. Although I shall never understand why I have such a large room all to myself. A score of us could fit in here easily. Not that I am complaining, no sir. This is me, so very much not complaining,” Stiles exclaimed, his hands waving at the room as he spoke.

Scott smiled widely. “I am glad you are here. I have missed having someone my age and rank around since Lord Derek pulled me out of the kitchen.”

“Really? The only other time I had that, things did not turn out so well,” Stiles replied, mood lowering with the memory of his last night at the estate of Master Gerard.

“So how are you feeling after all the sleep you got?” Scott asked.

Stiles thought about it for a moment. “I feel good. Really good, except I think I could eat a horse. Are there any big horses around?” About the time he finished speaking, his stomach growled, and they both chuckled.

“Then, I think you ought to get washed up and dressed. Lord Peter would like you to break your fast with him.”

Stiles froze. _Good Spirits, no, not the Monarch! The man must have an oppressive push considering his position!_ Stiles had begun to feel spoiled and pampered from not feeling any ‘shoving’ since he had arrived here. “Will Master Derek be there also?”

“I do not think so, but there is nothing to be afraid of. Lord Peter will not hurt you. I have seen much of him over the last four summers, and he has always been soft handed, even when servants made mistakes. Go wash up, and I will find you something to wear,” Scott told him.

After an aborted groan, Stiles went to the ewer and washed the sleep away. When he turned around, Scott was making his bed. “What are you doing?”

“What? You need to get dressed and allow me to straighten your room.”

Stiles sighed and slipped into the clothes Scott had laid out on a chair. Then he briskly rubbed both his hands over the back of his head in frustration because he was meeting Lord Peter for the first time, and Master Derek would not be with him. He forced himself to calm down, knowing he owed fealty to the Monarch, push or no. “I expect I am ready.”

“Good! I will take you to his suite.” Scott paused, studying Stiles and added, “Do not worry so. Everything will be all right.”

With a nod, Scott led the way out of Stiles' room, and down one flight of steps to the room at the end of the hall where guards stood. Stiles tried to remain calm, but he worried about the push he was bound to feel from the Monarch. He could sense no pull as he walked down the hall; therefore, he knew his Master was not present, which only added to his dread.

They approached the room, and the guards stepped aside. One tapped lightly before opening the door. “Your visitor is here, Sire,” he announced.

Stiles heard an answered “Thank you, Ethan,” from inside the room. Scott patted him once on the shoulder. “We will see each other later, Stiles,” he said, and strode back down the hall toward the stairs.

Stiles stood there watching his retreat, feeling so completely alone. One of the guards cleared his throat, and Stiles jumped. “The Monarch is waiting.”

“Um, yes, I am going,” Stiles replied quietly. He had to face the man alone. It was daunting to know he would soon be feeling an unbearable push again. Stiles straightened and walked into the room, head high and eyes lowered.

With the absence of a push, he glanced up. He was surprised to see a man sitting behind the desk, appraising him. He realized then that he had been so distracted with worry about feeling a strong push, that he would have felt it long before reaching the door.

At first glance, Stiles could see no real resemblance to Master Derek. They both had penetrating eyes, but that seemed to be as far as it went. This man’s eyes were a bright blue, and physically he seemed much smaller than his Master was, although he was still fit and trim. His shoulder-length hair was a lighter brown, and almost curly as opposed to having a slight wave.

Stiles approached the desk, eyes lowered again, and stopped. “My Lord. How may I assist you?” he asked with a small bow. His voice sounded calmer than he felt.

The man rose, took a couple of steps to the side of his desk and stopped, almost as if to get a better look at Stiles. “Ah, the prodigy lad has manners; so good to know. Your name is Stiles, yes?”

The Monarch spoke so lightheartedly; it almost seemed as if he held a private secret, or that he thought something was amusing. He was not at all what Stiles expected, although he was most grateful the man did not have the push he had anticipated. “Yes, my Lord,” Stiles answered humbly, his hands at his sides as he had been taught.

“Stiles… A Stile is a step in a fence, used for easy access to climb over it. I wonder what type of fence we shall need you for, in order to get over,” the Monarch mused, his voice smooth and his eyes twinkling. “Please, be seated. Break your fast with me, so we can get to know one another.” With a wave in the direction of the chair closest to Stiles, the Monarch reseated himself in the seat he had been occupying.

The situation seemed so surreal. Stiles did not know how to take the man. He slowly stepped up to the chair the Monarch had indicated and sat down. No sooner had he done that, than the door opened behind him again.

In walked three boys carrying large trays and pitchers, which were quietly set on the empty desk between the Monarch and himself. The trio bowed slightly and left, just as Allison entered with an armful of platters, utensils and mugs.

She set them down and quickly arranged them before both the Monarch and himself. She then pulled the cover off the platters of food, and served the Monarch.

“Thank you, Allison. That will be all for now,” the Monarch told her.

Allison curtsied with a “My Lord,” and quietly left.

The aroma of the food made Stiles mouth water.

“Pray, help yourself to all that you want. Derek tells me you need to eat more, and thin as you are, I must agree.”

Stiles needed no more urging than that to fill his platter. There were thick, salty ham slices, crisp bacon and links of sausage. He heaped them on his plate as well as hard-boiled eggs that were still in their hot shells, fruit, bread still warm from the oven, and some aromatic cheese. When he looked at the other man’s scantily filled dish, Stiles thought he might have done wrong. Yet the Monarch wore a small smile, and seemed to be waiting on Stile before he took his first bite.

Once Stiles raised his fork, the Monarch did also. The taste exploded in Stiles mouth. He did not even notice his own moan through the pleasure. Stiles glutted himself on the flavorful food, and when he looked at the Monarch, he realized the man was watching him instead of eating.

Stiles stopped, his eyes wide and his mouth full. He attempted to swallow, but still had food in his mouth when he spoke. “This is really good, I mean really, really good. You have like the best cooks ever. So good, I-want-to-marry-them good. It really is the tastiest food I have ever tasted. You should eat, too, before it gets cold.” He could not believe he was speaking to the Monarch in this way. Stiles bit down on his tongue to stop any more inane words spilling from his mouth. Embarrassment aside, now he was afraid. Why would a man as powerful as the Monarch retain a slave such as him: a mouth that takes off before he has a chance to think of what to say, and the manners of a squirrel stuffing its cheeks? Swallowing the remainder of the food in his mouth, he began again. “My apologies, my Lord. I forget myself and my manners.”

The smirk never left the Monarch’s face, nor did the twinkle in his eyes. _What is with the twinkling eyes, anyway? Twinkle, Twinkle like a star._ Stiles lowered his fork, set his hands on his lap, and waited. He did not have to wait long.

“One of the advantages of having power is to acquire the best of the best. We do have the best cooks here, and it warms my heart to remember that by watching you eat. Although, as to you marrying one of them? That shall never happen. They are far too old for you, dear Stiles. As you said, eat, before the food gets cold.” With that, the Monarch lifted a forkful of food to his mouth.

Stiles began eating again, this time very carefully. He still moaned on occasion, usually while biting into one of the links of sausage, spiced to perfection. When he finally finished, he sat back in his chair, completely sated and wanting a nap.

The Monarch pushed the dirty trays to the end of his desk and leaned back also. “Tell me about yourself, Stiles,” he bid.

He sat up straight, fearful once again, and not sure why. “What would you like to know, my Lord?”

“Where do you come from? What did you do there? You sound educated, so who trained you? How did you end up here? Why, I would like to know everything there is to know about you, Stiles,” the Monarch said in a smooth, almost singsong voice.

While Stiles loved to talk, he was only comfortable when it was with other slaves, since he never knew when something stupid would come out of his mouth. He would have felt much better answering these questions to his Master, but it looked as if the Monarch would know about his life first. Worrying the edge of his very nice jacket with his fingers, Stiles kept his eyes on the Monarch’s collar, below his eyes, and spoke.

“Up until few moons ago, I had lived my whole life in a town called Danant. It was then that my Master Garrison passed on to sit at the table of the gods. He owned my mother and myself. Our lives were very easy, for slaves.

“Master Garrison taught me my numbers and letters in order to help him around his herb shop. He also taught me everything he knew about the different herbs and their uses. I was trusted to buy the supplies we needed, all by myself.” Stiles felt he had answered all of the Monarch’s questions, so he stopped.

The Monarch rose, and slowly walked around the room, something Stiles wished he could do. “Denant. Where is that? I have never heard of it,” the Monarch inquired.

“In Rogarnia, on a freshwater lake, shielded by mountains all around. The trees are different there; they are full and filled with birds of every kind. Thanks to the hunters of our village, no one ever went hungry. The soil is good there, healthy, not like this dead, white sand that blows everywhere.”

[ ](http://s1097.photobucket.com/user/TJRGlitter/media/Legacy%20of%20the%20Dragons/tumblr_n38wd5tLY61qk948io1_500.jpg.html)

“Who did your Master pay tribute to?”

Stiles was quiet in thought. “I do not know, my Lord. Master did not speak to us of such things.”

“Hmmm. Your speech is very proper for a slave. Why is that?”

“My Master had me tutored, my Lord. It may have been so I would cause no offence if someone of importance entered the shop where I helped him.”

“I see,” the Monarch said. He was quiet for a moment before he continued. “You mentioned your mother. What about your father? Where was he, and what did he do?”

“My mother never told me who my father was, although it was rare for a Master to keep a slave’s offspring. Master Garrison had been a kind man, and I often suspected he was my sire. He never beat me, and he always saw that I was well fed and clothed.”

“I see,” the Monarch stated. He leaned against the wall beside the window and rubbed his chin, almost as if it helped him think. “What happened when your Master passed on?”

“Once Master passed, all the stability in my life disappeared. My mother and I had wanted to grieve the loss of such a kind Master, but we never got the chance. Officials came, collected us, and put us in a cell until the slave dealers arrived.”

“Why were you taken by the slave dealers? Do you know?” the Monarch asked.

“As I understand it, Master left no papers stating his wishes for his belongings. The mistress had died a couple years before him. Master Garrison had been so sad with her loss that he had let many things slide. My mother and I were just some of those things.”

“What happened then?”

The gaping sense of loss, upheaval and fear that he had thought gone, overwhelmed him once again. Stiles swam in the memories as they engulfed him. The emotions he felt seemed to want to bury him, even though he spoke as if he were telling a story. “After many days, the slavers came and added us to a large group waiting outside the town. They shackled me to the other men, making it difficult to walk as we trudged along the road during the day, and nigh impossible to sleep on the hard ground at night.

“I never saw my mother the whole time we traveled. I believe the women were kept in the wagons, far to the back, along with the food and water.

“They led us far from what I had always considered home, leaving it further behind every day as we made our way through strange, harsh lands, and always collecting more slaves as we went. Finally, we arrived on the shore of what appeared to be endless water.

“From there, we spent many, many days in the bowels of a giant ship, which caused a large portion of the men to sicken and die as the boat bounced through the water or violently rocked with the waves. Our ankles grew raw from the shackles, and the air was stagnant and foul. Even our food had been stale, tasteless or wormy.

“When we had finally disembarked, the stars above were different. Then there was more trudging under the hot sun as it burned our skin and dried our mouths.

“Once we finally arrived at their destination, the routine changed. Handlers took all the male slaves I had traveled with to the river for bathing and haircuts. To have the dust and grime of so many days travel washed off was a blessing, even though bathing in the chill water burned the sores under our leg irons.

“The handlers shaved us, not allowing the slaves to touch any of their sharp knives. Hair was mostly either trimmed or shaved off completely. My finger length hair had once hung past my shoulders.”

“I can say that unequivocally, that time of your life sounded sufficiently terrible,” the Monarch said as Stiles words faded away.

Stiles looked up, having forgotten he was not alone, that the memories he relived were only that; memories.

“So tell me, how did you hear about the prophecy?”

Confusion filled Stiles as he locked eyes with the Lord. “Excuse me? I am sorry, my Lord. What prophecy?”

Lord Peter said nothing for many moments, and then seemed to relax as he retook his seat. “Deaton tells me that we rescued you just in time. Pray tell me why you were to be whipped and marked as a runner, Stiles.”

Stiles felt his panic rising. The Monarch could decide with this meeting that he was not good enough to remain here and serve Master Derek. “My Lord, I am ashamed to tell you. One of the reasons my last owner bought me was to use as a pleasure slave. I have never served in that fashion before. One of the girls wanted that position, and went in my place, while I stayed out of sight in the barn. I promise to serve you and Master Derek better than that, my Lord.” Stiles could only imagine how much the Monarch regretted purchasing him now.

“You say you have never served in that fashion before? Does that mean you are untouched?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Stiles answered, although he could not understand why that would be important.

Then Stiles felt it. A pull so sweet and calming that it nearly took his breath away. He closed his eyes and experienced the sensations that continued to grow. Stiles knew Master Derek had stopped on the other side of the door. He turned his head, opened his eyes, and waited to watch his Master enter.

“Stiles?” the Monarch asked.

With his Master arriving, the Monarch could not hold his attention. “Master Derek is here.”

He had not turned around to face the Monarch when he answered, otherwise, he would have seen surprise and relief flash across the man’s face. “I do not think that is possible. He is performing a duty for me elsewhere,” the Monarch told him.

There was a knock on the door, and the guards admitted a servant. Stiles could not take his eyes off the man. He was old and had graying hair. His hunched back seemed to cause him trouble walking, but what Stiles noticed most was the man had Master Derek’s pull, strong and sweet! Even his body reacted to it.

“I do not understand,” Stiles whispered.

He must have said that loud enough for the Monarch to hear. “He is here to clear away the platters. You do not think they walk back to the kitchen on their own, do you?”

The servant stacked the platters carefully, while Stiles continued to stare as if the Monarch had not spoken. “He feels just like Master Derek. It makes no sense. All my life, I have waited for someone with a pull to serve, and in the last two days, I have felt three such people.”

“Three? Who else besides my nephew did you feel?”

For the first time he turned away from the servant, and Stiles refocused his attention on the Monarch. “Yesterday in the guards’ hall, one of the guards pulled me. I did not get a good look at him, other than his blue eyes.”

Stiles began to wonder if Master Derek was the one he was supposed to follow after all. Could one of the others who pulled him be the one he _should_ be serving? How was he to know which one was his true Master?

He turned to look at the servant again, met the man’s piercing brown eyes, and found he could not turn away. Suddenly, the man seemed to grow fuzzy around the edges. Stiles slowly stood as the blurriness spread. His mouth was open in awe and disbelief, as the servant seemed to shimmer and blur before him. Suddenly, his Master stood there, colorful eyes replacing the brown ones, looking even more intense. The servant garb was also gone, and he was wearing black leggings that hugged his legs and showed how fit and muscular his Master was. Above the leggings was a silky, black jacket that tied at the waist, accenting the breadth of Master Derek’s shoulders. The Lord was truly a magnificent sight!

Never looking away from Stiles, Master Derek spoke. “Do you have any more doubts, uncle?”

Stiles did not see the relieved expression the Monarch wore as he answered his nephew. “No, none at all!”

While Stiles had never been an overly humble slave, he gracelessly dropped to his knees before the powerful sorcerer. “Master,” he began, “the guard, that was you, also, was he not? What you just did? That was amazing. I mean, the most amazing thing I have ever seen. But you must know how amazing that was, because you did it.” With difficulty, Stiles managed to close his mouth.

His Master smiled fondly at him. “Yes, Stiles, that was I. Pray, sit in the chair,” Master Derek requested as he helped him back up to his feet.

The touch of Master Derek’s hand only intensified the reaction he was having to the magnetic draw. Blood filled his groin as he retook his seat. He pulled at his clothes to hide his pleasurable discomfort, but the smirk on his Master’s face told him that he, at least, understood.

The Monarch cleared his throat, and both Stiles and his Master turned to give him their attention. Stiles became the Monarch’s complete focus, and Stiles was not so sure he liked that.

“Derek would like you to apprentice him. How do you feel about that, Stiles?”

Stiles had no reason to think about it before he answered. “I will serve my Master in any way he wishes, my Lord.”

Master Derek started to say something, but the Monarch stopped him with a raised hand. “What if you were not a slave? What would you want to do with your life? Where would you go?”

“I have always been a slave. I am happy, and therefore I never wasted my time dreaming about freedom. What I have dreamed about was finding and serving the one with a pull. That one is Master Derek, and all I desire out of life is to serve him, so I have no need of freedom.”

“You have told me what you want, but I ask again, what if you were free?” the Monarch prodded.

_Free? He did not want freedom!_ “I would stay here with Master Derek and serve him. I would be whatever he wanted me to be for him. I would never walk away. I belong to him. Pray, do not free me! It is important for me to belong to Master Derek!” Stiles began to feel anxious, afraid they would send him away.

For many moments, there was silence in the room as the two Lords stared at him. Finally, the Monarch fidgeted in his seat and leaned on his desk. He glanced at the sorcerer, and then focused on Stiles again before speaking.

“Your freedom does not mean you are not wanted here. It means you will be here by your own choice. We have reason to believe you have the ability to become a sorcerer. A slave cannot receive training to become a sorcerer. The people will not accept that. Derek wishes to train you, only if you will agree to be his apprentice.”

Stiles pulled his focus away from the Monarch to look at his Master. The man stared at him intently, as if his response were important. Stiles slid to his knees before the sorcerer to make his vow. “I will do anything to serve you, Master. If it is your wish to make me your apprentice, I will do my very best. I am yours.”

The look in his Master’s eye made a subtle change. They grew darker, almost hungry. “I accept your vow.”

Master Derek then reached out, sliding his hand along the side of Stiles’ face and around to the back of his neck. When he pulled his hand away, he was holding Stiles’ collar.

Stiles rubbed his fingers over his bare neck. The collar had been around his neck for so long, he felt as if a part of him were missing. He gazed up into Master Derek’s eyes, and felt the loss of his position. He was no longer Master Derek’s slave. It was a frightening feeling to have no Master, and he was not ready to release his Master yet.

The Monarch cleared his throat again, and pulled their attention back to him. “Stiles, pray, return to your seat.”

As he slid back into the chair, the Monarch continued. “There is a prophecy that we have studied for many years. We know Derek is a part of this augury, and believe you are, also. It is because of this that we suspect you have latent magic and can become a very powerful sorcerer.”

“I do not understand,” Stiles confessed. His whole world was off kilter. First, they said he had magical powers, then they freed him, and now they have told him he is part of some old prophecy. He tried to settle himself and concentrate as his Master spoke.

“The push you feel when you to sense others around you is a trait only a powerful sorcerer is born with,” his Master explained.

“Then why do I sense no one here in the keep, other than you, Master?”

“Everyone who resides here was handpicked. I sense people with a pull, although much weaker than the one I feel from you. We discovered that we could trust the people I feel a pull from, more than those that do not have a draw. Peter allows me to choose who to hire to fill our needs around here, and I feel a pull from them all, to one degree or another.”

“It feels so refreshing here, so different from the almost constant, abrasive push I have felt around many people. Master Gerard was the worst,” Stiles shared.

“Your old Master had no pull. All of our dealings with him left us wondering just how corrupt he was, not to mention the history he has for abusing his slaves. It seems as though you are able to feel those you should not trust. Believe in your senses, Stiles.”

Stiles was stunned with this information. While he had never considered it before, he could believe it to be truth that he should distrust those with a push; the interaction he’d had with Master Gerard was proof enough of that. However, the push being indicative that he had magic… Stiles found that to be as difficult to accept as being part of some old prophecy. Yet, he was more than happy with his Master wanting to spend time with him during an apprenticeship, as long as they were together! “May I ask why you think I am mentioned in a prophecy?” Stiles asked.

The Monarch leaned back with his elbows on the chair arms. “Once upon a time, there were powerful mages who could tell the future. Many of the things they had prophesized have already come true. There is only one remaining document of future tellings. In it, ancient augurs predicted that a first-born heir to the throne would have powerful magic that no one had seen in the land for eons. This power would remove him from the seat of power, to become the mage he was born to be.

“It goes on to state that another would be found that was just as powerful in magic, but of lower caste. That a powerful pull would attract this person to Derek, and that glamour, or illusion, would prove the proper person. You are the only one to pass that test.

“The prophecy also mentions the difficulties the two of you would have once you met. That Chaos would try to keep you apart, because together, you can destroy it.”

Stiles thought this information over. The room was silent other than the fire crackling in the fireplace. As difficult as it was to believe that he possessed any type of power, it was also exciting. Then a new thought struck him. “Is there more to the prophecy that I should know?”

It was a few moments before his Master answered. “Yes, it states that if you are pure and chaste, peace and prosperity will fill the land.”

Stiles looked to Master Derek with his eyes wide, the words _pure and chaste_ ringing in his ears. He understood the questions now. “Does that mean I shall die untouched?”

The Monarch choked and turned his head. Stiles could swear he was hiding a smile behind his hand. When he turned back to his Master, he looked to be at a loss for words. Stiles understood then; he _would_ die untouched. He would never be able to bring pleasure to his Master. He felt devastated at that thought.

His Master cleared his throat. “Um, no, that is not what that means, although you will have to remain so until a time when it is safe.”

_What does that even mean?_ Stiles thought.

His Master then changed the subject. “Stiles, I would like you to get a marking on your arm similar to mine. While the artist needles special ink into your skin, I will be adding more magic to the mixture.”

“What will the magic do?” Stiles asked.

“The magic will alert me if you are ever in trouble.”

Stiles glanced down at Master Derek’s arm. It was the first time he had noticed the marking on the back of his forearm. It was a sword with winged dragon clinging to and circled around the blade. It was as long as Stiles’ hand, and done all in grays and black. There was nothing to decide. The sorcerer had just removed his collar; the thought of having a permanent mark to prove he belonged to Master Derek was perfect. Besides, sitting this close to that sweet pull, all he wanted to do was please the man. “I would be honored to have a marking like yours, Master,” Stiles said humbly.

[ ](http://s1097.photobucket.com/user/TJRGlitter/media/Legacy%20of%20the%20Dragons/7eccd413-7c43-4bdf-b4da-8a64d4f6ba18.jpg.html)

The Monarch was tapping his nails on the desk, but Stiles could not pull his eyes away from his Master. “You would do anything I ask of you?” the man he was born to serve asked him, pointedly.

“Yes, Master, I would.”

“Good. Your collar is off. The papers to free you only need one more signature to make it official. You are no longer a slave, therefore you should cease addressing me as _Master_. Out in public, you may call Peter and me by our titles, but when we are in private chambers, pray, refer to my uncle as Peter, and me as Derek. Will you do that for me?”

The Monarch, Lord Peter, no, Peter’s finger tapping fell silent, and it seemed the two of them were waiting for his answer. This felt so very wrong. “As you wish… Derek.” Stiles put so much reverence into the name, he was sure that even Derek would know that to Stiles, it meant ‘Master’.

Peter grinned with his eyes all a twinkle. “Well, I think you are going to have your hands full with this one, Derek.”

The Monarch, no, Peter then turned his focus back on Stiles. “Great changes will be coming into your life now. You have much to learn, not only as Derek’s apprentice, but also around the keep. I think it is necessary to get your education started forthwith. You will have tutors, and Derek has assigned Scott to help you, also. We wish to make this transition as easy as possible for you.”

“Thank you… Peter.” Stiles stumbled over his name.

“All I ask is that you study hard in your lessons. The sooner you climb through the ranks of sorcery, the sooner your caste will rise. You will need to know how to handle yourself as that happens,” Master Derek told him.

“I will do my very best to please you, Mas…Erm. When do we start?” Stiles asked, honestly looking forward to learning.

“We can begin right after we take care of your marking. How does that sound?”

“That sounds perfect,” Stiles answered. “When will that happen?”

“As soon as we are finished here. Peter?”

“Just allow me to finish with Stiles’ papers, and you will be excused,” Lord Peter stated. With that, he lit a small candle and opened a scroll that had been sitting on his desk. Stiles could see there were two signatures at the bottom already, and watched as Lord Peter added his with a flourish. Picking up the candle he had lit, he poured a small blob of wax onto the scroll and pushed his official signet into it.

“It is now official. You are a free man, Stiles,” the Monarch stated.

Stiles did not know how to feel. Things had changed so significantly, so quickly, it made his head spin.

“Do you have any experience with horses? Can you ride?” Derek asked.

“No, sir, I have never ridden before. I have only taken a cart to market. The pony was well trained,” Stiles explained.

“You will need to learn how to ride, then. I will have a carriage readied to take us where we need to go.” Lord Derek stated, rising to tell the guards what he needed.

“We are done here for now, anyway,” Peter said. “I am most grateful to have you here, Stiles. Welcome to Sertonan!”

Stiles stood as the Monarch finished speaking. “Thank you… Peter. You honor me.” Lord Peter held out his hand. Slowly, Stiles reached out to grasp forearms. As foreign as it felt, he idly wondered if he would ever get used to being free.

* * *

The carriage was ready shortly after they walked out the door. Alone with Derek, Stiles was able to concentrate on the sensations of the pull and the faint, spicy scent that surrounded the sorcerer. With Derek this close, he had a pleasant ache in his groin, and was grateful his tunic hid his crotch.

Stiles had a difficult time not staring at the man who had changed his life so much. In spite of all the amazing changes that happened since he came here, he still had concerns. “May I ask a question?”

“You are a free man, and you have my unconditional permission to ask me anything. What is on your mind?”

“You sent me to my room last night. I thought you would want me to warm your bed. You asked me that at the fountain.”

Derek chuckled. “That was not exactly a question.” Then he became serious. “I cannot touch you. The land is bound to you somehow, and you must remain pure, or the consequences will be dire. On the other hand, had you not been able to feel me when I walked into Peter’s office, you would have spent this entire day under me!”

Stiles’ breath caught with the intensity of Derek’s lust filled voice. He wished with all his heart that he could have spent all day pleasing this man he desired so much. Stiles had to look away, or he would embarrass himself. It was obvious he would have to learn to control his body while near this man.

The ride had been short, but sweet, sitting so close to his Lord. When the carriage stopped, and they had both climbed down, an elderly man met Derek warmly. They clasped arms at the door of a small building in the woods.

The man was much shorter than Lord Derek was, and what little hair he still had left on his head was short enough to think the man shaved it daily. His ears sat very close to his head, and old as he seemed, there were very few wrinkles on his face.

“My Lord! It has been too long! You are not alone. Does that mean that this is the young man you once told me about?” the man asked.

“Katashi, my friend! Yes, this is Stiles, the one I have been searching for. We just recently found him. Stiles, this is Katashi. He is very talented and precise with his ink.”

Katashi then grasped Stiles’ wrist. “It is good to meet you, Stiles. Lord Derek has sought you for many years.”

“It is good to meet you, also, sir,” Stiles responded.

“Oh, there is no need to call me sir,” Katashi stated.

Lord Derek had pulled several small, corked bottles from his pocket and handed them to Katashi.

“These are the inks you wish me to use? They are fresh, yes?” the man asked as he set the things he needed on a high table.

“The inks were finished yesterday, so everything is fresh,” the Lord assured.

“Good, good! I would not want to put the lad through this for nothing.” Katashi then turned toward Stiles. “You are not the type to pass out at the sight of your own blood, are you?”

For the first time since they mentioned the marking, Stiles became nervous. “I do not think so. I never have before, anyway.”

“Well, let us get you set then,” Katashi said.

He directed Stiles to sit on a tall stool by the table with the inks. There were other items on the table, items he had never seen the likes of, and that made him nervous. Only the presence of his Master, no his lord, eased his anxiety.

Katashi picked up an instrument, added some ink to it, and looked to Derek.

“Are you ready?” Lord Derek asked as he rolled back his sleeves.

With Katashi’s nod, the sorcerer stepped up beside them. “Stiles, this will be very uncomfortable before long. You will have to endure. We cannot stop once we begin. Do you understand?”

Stiles stared into blue-green eyes that seemed filled with regret, and he understood then that Derek did not want to hurt him. This marking would be proof of the claim his Lord had on him, and there was nothing Stiles wanted more than to be owned, protected, _loved_ by this man. He wanted this marking! He relaxed and knew he would take any pain as long as it connected him to this man, his lord, his Master! “I understand,” he assured them.

Lord Derek began chanting and raised his hands over the arm that had been set up to ink, just high enough for Katashi to work under. Stiles kept his eyes on his Lord’s face. The man’s eyes never left Stiles’ arm where Katashi applied the ink. The close proximity kept him aroused, and Stiles was surprised to find out the inking hurt in a good way… in the beginning, anyway.

It was not very long before the pain became uncomfortable. Stiles began to sweat as he struggled not to move his arm or disrupt the two men in any way. Through a pain-filled vision, he concentrated on Lord Derek’s face to distract himself from the torture of the needles as they stabbed his arm over and over. The man’s eyes were so focused, so intense, it was as if Lord Derek were void of all his surroundings. He lowered his eyes to the sorcerer’s mouth as he quietly chanted things that made no sense at all. Stiles tried, unsuccessfully, to understand what he was saying. Nothing, not even the pull could distract him from the pain he tried to ignore.

Katashi added more ink to his torture rod. It was not the first time, but this time Stiles watched him. When he was ready to stick him some more, he grabbed a cloth and wiped ink and blood from the marking, and Stiles saw it clearly for the first time. The dragon-encased sword on the Derek’s arm was black, but the finished portion on his own arm looked life-like. The dragon seemed to be climbing around the sharp blade of the sword in vibrant shades of blue. It was beautiful, although barely half done, and Stiles did not know if he would be able to tolerate it much longer.

He knew he had agreed to this, but he never expected it to be so agonizing. He looked up again at the man he swore to serve, and renewed his vow to himself. When this was over, he would wear a mark that would prove to the world that he had a connection to this man, his lord, his savior, his _Master!_ He would find a way to bear this and make the sorcerer proud!

He closed his eyes and remembered… He remembered the moments he had shared with his Master the evening before in the room below his. Stiles relived his Master kissing him with a hunger that matched his own, tongue teasing his mouth open, and the desire he had felt to please the other man. He immersed himself in those pleasant thoughts with relish. He soon found darkness framing his vision and distance between himself and his pain, as he submerged completely into his thoughts.

The sun was past high in the sky when Derek lowered his arm so their two markings almost touched, and chanted over both of them. Finally, Katashi wiped the blood off for the last time and handed the rag to the sorcerer. Lord Derek held it to his own marking as he continued to chant. When he finished his incantation and lifted the rag, it was free of Stiles’ blood. Only the ink remained.

They said their farewells, and Derek walked beside Stiles out to the carriage. Stiles felt as though he were sleepwalking, everything seemed distant, even the burn of his arm that seemed to be slowly spreading throughout his body.

“Are you all right, Stiles?” Derek asked after he had helped Stiles into his seat.

All Stiles could do was nod faintly; he was having a difficult time pulling himself out of the protection he had built in his mind.

“I cannot heal that for you. I am sorry, but if I add any more magic to it, it will destroy what I have done. I am sure the incantation must feel like fire on top of all that raw skin.”

Stiles struggled to raise his gaze to meet the Lord’s eyes. “It is rather uncomfortable. The burn seems to be spreading up my arm. Is that normal?”

“Already? That is good! The magic will spread throughout your body and become one with you. The burning will ease as it spreads. Once your body absorbs it, the discomfort will cease and the magic will become a part of you,” Derek explained.

“What is the magic for?”

“The spell I said over the ink connects our markings. If you are ever in danger, my ink will burn, and color will flare to let me know what is wrong and how to find you. Hopefully, I will be able to protect you.

“Also, as bright as those colors are, there is no doubt that you are as pure as you say. Had you not been pure, the colors would have been muted at best, gray or black at worst. The land will be safe as long as we can keep you that way.”

The Lord’s explanation was too confusing for Stiles. His mind seemed muddled, so he changed the topic. “What is the pull like to you?”

“I suspect the pull I feel toward you is exactly the same as the pull you feel toward me. It… affects me physically. I have to feel sorry for the sots who spend their time down by the wharf, if their desire for drink in any way resembles the desire I have to bask in your pull.”

Listening to the Lord’s voice was like listening to soothing music, and he wanted him to keep talking. “I have explained about the push I feel toward most people. You said you sense people with a pull. Does the pull feel the same from everyone?” Stiles asked.

“No. It varies from person to person, and not every person has one. From some people, it is similar to standing out in the warm sun; it is comforting, nothing else. Others pull me to them, like a magnet to metal. Your pull, on the other hand, is more like falling from a cliff; there is no way to change direction. You are my destination.”

Derek was gazing deeply into Stiles’ eyes as he finished speaking. Stiles felt himself falling into those pools of swirling colors, only to have Derek catch him as he slumped forward. His Master pulled him onto his lap and held him close, careful of his marking. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Stiles found it extremely wrong to sit thus on his Master; he should be the one doing the caretaking. However, Derek’s pull comforted him with his touch, so he leaned his head onto the larger man’s shoulder.

This close, Stiles could easily smell the scent that was his lord. Stiles had caught whiffs of it before, but the pull had always distracted him. Concentrating on that scent now, he realized just how provocative and arousing it was. Although it affected Stiles less than the pull, the Lord must have attracted many lovers between that and his looks. The pull and his Master’s scent were not affecting him the way it usually did. The fire in his arm was slowly spreading throughout his body. He dozed fitfully on the ride back to the castle, wrapped in the nest of Derek’s arms.

Lord Derek had to help him out of the carriage when they arrived. Stiles’ body was on fire, and he felt weak. In one way, he wanted to put distance between Derek and himself. He was convinced that he was deathly ill and did not want to infect his lord, but the close contact seemed to be the only thing that eased his suffering.

Lord Derek assisted him up to his own suite, and made Stiles comfortable at the table in his office. When he stepped out to have food delivered to them, Stiles’ discomfort doubled.

When Derek returned, he was writhing on the floor in pain, fire burning through his veins. “Leave me, Master, before you become ill,” Stiles implored.

“It is only the magic spreading through your body. You power is strong indeed if it burns this much,” Derek crooned as he wiped a stray hair off Stiles’ sweat-beaded brow.

The Lord’s fingers against his skin once again eased his pain, and Derek helped him off the floor. “It is obvious we are not going to begin any magic instructions today. Food will give your body some strength and help lessen the pain. In the meantime, rest,” Derek told him.

Stiles curled against Derek’s chest again, cradling his arm. His forehead was nestled in the crook of his lord’s neck. He had not felt this safe since he was small and on his mother’s lap. Just on the verge of dozing off, a quiet knock woke him, followed by Scott entering with a tray of food.

Quietly and efficiently, food and drink were set up within his Master’s reach. “Will there be anything else, my Lord?” Scott inquired with a bow.

“No, Scott. Thank you. You can come back later to clean this away,” Derek answered quietly.

“Yes, sir, I will,” Scott replied, and then left even quieter than he had arrived.

There was a lot of food; however, none of it looked appetizing to Stiles, bad as he felt. When Derek handed him a mug of what smelled like beef broth, he tried to push it away.

“Do you trust me? It may not seem appetizing now, but it will help you feel better. Now, drink,” his Master ordered in a loving tone.

Stiles brought the broth to his lips and took a couple sips, then held the warm mug and waited to see if he would be able to hold it down. Stiles watched as Derek rolled a slice of rare beef and took a bite. When he finished that piece, he tapped on the mug. “It is better when it is warm.”

He drank several sips as Derek bit into a juicy piece of melon and then licked his lips. “Mmmm, this is good! Taste,” he said as he put the melon to Stiles’ mouth. Stiles opened and took a small bite of the sweet morsel. When he had swallowed it, Derek fed the rest of that piece of fruit to him, and then picked up a piece of cheese for himself.

Derek kept feeding them both while Stiles finished his broth. By the time they were finished, Stiles felt a little better, not good, per se, but a noticeable improvement. “How does food help take away the pain?” Stiles asked.

“When magic is used on a person, it uses that person’s strength as well as that of the sorcerer. Food and sleep are the two most important things we have to replenish that strength. In your case, the magic is still feeding off you, or rather your strength and essence, as it becomes a part of you. Normally, a spell like that would only be slightly uncomfortable as it merged with the body. Your own magic has been touched, and it is rebelling. That is why it hurts.

“As you train and learn how to control your power, your magic will increase. There are also tricks we have learned to strengthen that power even more. I am curious as to how strong you are already. How strong is the pull of yours? You seem to feel me a lot farther away than I expect you to.” Derek stated.

“Well, I could feel you before your carriage came to a stop when we first met, and I know when you sit downstairs from my room. Yesterday, I could feel you as you came into the guards’ hall, and knew when you were coming to Lord Peter’s suite. Is that good?”

Derek chuckled. “Good? Yes. With a draw like that, you are going to be an extremely strong sorcerer, Stiles.”

While all this was important and interesting, Stiles could not prevent himself from yawning. He embarrassed himself by being so rude.

“You want to go up to your room? Food and sleep will make you feel better,” Derek said.

Stiles had a full belly and desperately wanted to sleep, but did not want to go to his room. “Pray, let me stay here with you for a bit. When you are touching me, the pain eases.”

“Ahhh, I see. Come then. I will put you in my bed. You need as much sleep as possible if you want to feel better.”

Stiles’ mind went blank with that. He was not sure if it was because he was sleepy, or because of the thought of being in Derek’s bed. It did not matter as long as he would still be with his Master.

They stood, and Derek steadied him as they walked to his bedroom. Stiles scooted to the middle of the bed, still fully clothed, and the pain immediately became almost intolerable in the little time it took for Derek to grab a pillow to elevate Stiles marked arm. Then Derek climbed in behind him, also clothed, and wrapped himself around Stiles, like spoons stacked in a drawer. Comforted because of the Lord’s touch, Stiles could no longer keep his eyes open, and soon fell asleep.


	6. Lord Derek

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Derek had studied all the aspects of the spell he had cast over the marking on Stiles’ arm. He would have felt it to the core of his being if he had done something wrong. He _knew_ he had performed it correctly! His training had warned him that a strong reaction would occur if the receiver of the protection spell had strong magic himself, but he had not expected the reaction to be pain of this magnitude. That same training also mentioned that his touch, his pull, would soothe the spell and relieve the physical discomfort Stiles was experiencing. In spite of all that knowledge, he still wondered if he might have made a mistake.

Derek hated to see Stiles in so much agony. He also hated knowing it was because of something he had done. He stayed by the younger man’s side, constantly touching him. Knowing that his touch gave Stiles comfort helped ease some of the guilt he carried for being the cause of that pain in the first place. However, that same touch was so pleasurable it was almost torture for Derek.

Stiles had slept the rest of the day and the whole night, giving Derek nothing to do but think in his own waking moments. More than once, his thoughts turned to the previous night when Stiles had slipped into his dressing room, breathily calling him ‘Master’ and sliding to his knees. Those thoughts began as a tease and turned into an ache. Touching the lad the way he was only intensified those feelings.

He ignored his compulsion to take care of his ache. Sometimes it took everything Derek had, not to grind himself into the prone lad.

In the past, he had always hated the term ‘Master’. Derek had known too many ‘Masters’ that treated their servants as nothing more than animals. It reminded him of the way a lesser wolf would bare its neck to the alpha of the pack, offering up its life to the superior wolf. They did not abuse their servants at the keep. Derek never wanted to demean another human being in such a way, nor let others believe they had no choices. He offered a position to every servant he brought into the keep; no one was taken against their will.

With Stiles, the word held a completely new meaning. After hearing his explanation of what ‘Master’ meant to him, Derek wanted to be his Master. To have a beautiful man that submitted because he wanted Derek, not because he had to, and for that man to be the mate he had sought for so long was everything he could ask for.

Therefore, he held his mate; both of them suffering in their own ways, and he turned his thoughts to another type of training that he had already begun. He fed Stiles by hand before he slept, hoping the lad would realize that Derek _wanted_ to take care of him. He hoped that Stiles would think of it as normal, and that it was Derek’s right to do so.

Most of all, Derek hoped he would be able to share the rest of the prophecy with him sooner, rather than later.

When morning’s light peeked through the heavy drapes covering the windows, relief filled Derek when Stiles opened his eyes. He had marks from where he had lain on his face, and there was a wet spot on his pillow from his drool, but when Stiles opened his beautiful, brown eyes, and they were clear again, Derek could picture nothing more enticing.

Rolling over, his mate stretched, and then looked around the room in confusion. His eyes seemed to focus on the large, gold-framed painting that hung over the bureau, and then he turned and held Derek’s gaze.

The lad looked to have so many things cluttering up his mind that he did not know where to start. His opened his mouth as if to speak several times before any words finally left his mouth. “You allowed me to sleep in your bed. Like, all night,” Stiles finally uttered.

“Yes. You said my touch removed some of your pain.” Then Derek pulled his hand away from the smaller man’s arm. “How do you feel?”

Stiles seemed to think about it and then slowly pushed himself upright. “I feel normal again. There was no pain when you pulled your hand away.”

“Good,” Derek responded.

Stiles turned and nodded toward the painting again. “Is that your family?” he asked bluntly.

There was too much pain and guilt for him to speak of his family easily. Nonetheless, Derek had told Stiles he could ask anything. Derek would never take offence to anything his mate wanted to know. “Yes. It was painted a year before I left on my apprenticeship. That is my mother sitting in the throne of state. To her left, standing beside her chair, is my father. Those are my sisters, Laura and Cora, standing in front of him. I am standing to my mother’s right, the rightful place of the heir. This is the only picture where the whole family sat for the painter.”

“I do not understand. Were you the planned heir?”

“I was the eldest, so from the time of my birth, I trained to become the next Monarch, to follow in my mother’s rule. That all changed at the age of twelve summers. That is the age magic first manifests itself in children.”

Derek rose from the bed and stepped to the window. He stood there, looking out as he continued.

“The sorcerers around the land unite once a year to test all the free children of age. They do not bother testing slaves. The thought is, they would never have fallen to so low a caste if their blood had possessed any magic. Over the years, they have found fewer and fewer gifted, until those with any trace of magic at all are a rarity. The raw power I possessed was the strongest they had discovered in many generations. My parents did what they needed to do; they elevated my next eldest sister, Laura, to become Monarch-in-waiting, while I began my training as the royal sorcerer.”

“You said you left on your apprenticeship. Did your training not take place here?” Stiles asked.

“No. I traveled the lands with the most accomplished sorcerers while learning all of the arts still known to man. Generations ago, sorcerers had knowledge of many powers, most of which are now gone: such as speaking to others with their minds, and dreaming events half a world away as they happened. These were just some of the lost talents, such as prophecy. There are many others that are now gone from the lands.”

“What happened to your family?”

Derek turned and gripped the windowsill so tightly his knuckles turned white. He paused for many moments before he spoke, the guilt he felt closed his throat. “My apprenticeship made me extremely proficient at both healing and fighting. What I could to with my power in healing was far more reliable than that of the local healers.

“Long before my training was complete; many people of the keep suddenly became ill, dying horrible deaths from some unknown malady. I was studying under Marin Morrell at the time. We were many days from the palace when word of the sickness reached us. We rode our horses into the ground as we hurried back to the castle to help. Unfortunately, we arrived too late to save my parents or siblings.

“The illness seemed to be isolated to the castle and surrounding town. It took Marin and me over a moon’s time to expunge the disease completely. By the time Marin left, she had taught me everything that she could.”

The only noise in the room came from the crackling fire in the hearth, across the room. Tears streaked down Derek’s face. The guilt still ate at him for not being in time to save them. Pain of losing his family continually tore at him, even though years separated him from the dark event.

Stiles crossed the room to place his hand on Derek’s shoulder. “I am sorry for your loss,” Stiles said simply.

Derek nodded his head to show that he had heard Stiles, and slowly composed himself again. When he felt he had himself under control, he took Stiles’ hand and led him across the room to sit on the side of the bed. They were both quiet for many moments before the questions resumed.

“Why did you not become the Monarch at that point?” Stiles asked quietly.

“Because I am a sorcerer. The people would not accept a monarch with that type of power. Besides, my fate no longer lies in that direction. As a sorcerer, I have other responsibilities.”

“So how did Lord Peter become Monarch?” Stiles asked.

“Peter is my mother’s brother, and my only surviving relative. He did not live at the keep. He lived in a town almost a day’s travel away. Because of my two sisters, and an infant brother born after I left, it seemed almost impossible that Peter would ever be in line for the monarchy.”

Derek had one of Stiles’ hands in his, and he kept sliding the fingers of his other hand over the back of Stiles’ hand and arm as he talked.

“When I came to put him in the seat of power, Peter made it very clear he had no desire for it. It was obvious that Peter loved his life just the way it was, coming and going as he pleased. He had no wife or real responsibilities. Although he had no power or authority, the fact that he was related to the royal family was a benefit that opened doors for him that would not open for most people. He enjoyed the gifts, parties and invitations doled out to him by the upper crust, all thinking they could get favor from the Monarch through his ear. Little did they know that he had no political aspirations, and rarely visited us, but he was not above acting the part to suit his… needs.

“It took some work to convince him to leave his happy life behind, but Peter finally came around. When he did, he took his responsibilities seriously. The problem was he had no knowledge of how to rule a country because he had never trained for it. He needed much guidance. For the sake of the land, I remained by his side and helped him as he grew into his power.

“As a result, I have never completed my training.

“The day of his coronation was when Peter learned of the last known prophecy from ancient times. I had known of it almost from birth, but with Peter’s rise to power, he discovered that the words of the prophecy spoke of him.”

“The prophecy mentions Lord Peter, also?” Stiles asked.

“Yes, only in the way it states that one who is unprepared to rule would hold the seat of power.”

“How long did you seek the one with powerful magic mentioned in the prophecy? Did you ever find any others that you thought might be the one you sought?”

“It feels that I have always searched for the one who pulled to me, but I became more determined to find that person after Peter became the Monarch. On three different occasions I met women whose pull was abnormally strong, but all three had failed the test of glamour.”

Stiles became quiet, and seemed to be digesting the information Derek had shared with him. Derek needed to stop Stiles' questions before the lad asked something he should not answer.

“Perhaps we should leave any more questions you may have until later. I should send you back to your room now. You can take care of your morning ministrations, and then we need to talk to Peter and let him know that you are well. He desires your training to begin as soon as you are able.”

It was not long before they sat across from Peter at the desk in his office. Derek sat back and watched his uncle and Stiles interact. In the past, it had always intrigued him to see Peter intimidate the council with his sharp tongue. The only exception had been Deaton. That the Monarch had been unable to cow Deaton had raised him in both Derek and Peter’s esteem. The last time Stiles had met with his uncle, he had held his own quite well, overall. Derek was interested in seeing how well Stiles could handle himself today, now that he was a free man.

“You are well enough to begin your studies on the morrow, Stiles?” Peter asked.

“Yes, my Lord, it seemed to be only a temporary illness.”

“Excellent. I shall have your tutors notified that your lessons shall begin. You will apprentice with Derek in the morning, for I have need of him during the day. Mister Deaton will see you directly after noon meal each day the council does not meet. He will instruct you on the laws of the land as well as the incidents involving the regions bordering ours.

“On the days council is in session, you will learn etiquette from Miss Braeden. Mister Tate will see to it you learn to sit a horse, and Mister Yukimura will teach you the history of the land, as well as how to read maps. Do you have any questions?” Peter asked.

“No, my Lord, I do not.”

“I am beginning to wonder if you have the capacity to learn anything. Do you recall what we asked you to call us in private? Was it Lord?”

Derek was thrilled that Stiles did not look abashed. “Because you are speaking to me as my Monarch, I will address you as your station requires. When we are done with business, I will call you by name, as you requested. My Lord.”

Derek did not bother hiding his grin behind his hand. Submissive as Stiles could be, it appeared his mate had a spine of steel, and his uncle’s title of Monarch seemed to hold no threat to the lad. The surprised expression on his uncle’s face, though? It was worth a bag of gold! The two of them would get along well.

“Well, Peter, I can see you have been put in your place. Are we almost done here? I believe a bite of food would be good about now,” Derek teased.

* * *

It was still dark when Derek arose the following morning. Dressed simply in a black jacket and leggings, he was determined to make Stiles’ apprenticeship as enjoyable as possible. He remembered the years he had spent traveling, and wished he could do so with Stiles. Unfortunately, he had responsibilities here and could not wander the lands as he taught his apprentice. Nor would he send Stiles away from his protection to learn from others. He would teach the lad everything he knew, and send for sorcerers to assist him.

Regrettably, it would be boring work until Stiles had a basic knowledge of magic. In other words, Stiles would be studying scrolls.

Derek strode down into the bowels of the castle, the air around him chilling more with each level he descended. His ancestors had built the keep on solid rock; ergo, stone had been cut away to carve out the two lower levels. The first level he passed housed the armory. In the lower level, the passage split into both directions. The access to the left went to the holding cells and a dungeon that had remained unused in his lifetime. Derek continued in the other direction, to the treasure room. There were guards stationed on this level, not only to keep an eye on those in the cells, but also to protect the land’s assets. They would not interfere with his business.

He let himself inside the treasury, relocking the steel door behind him. It was a large room with many shelves and chests, filled with the gold, silver and jewels collected from the yearly tariffs. He strode to the rear of the room, to an empty, stone wall. He released a minute ribbon of magic, and waved his hand. The wall became wavy, and then disappeared. In its place was a steel door. The room beyond it was where Derek kept all his scrolls and books of spells and enchantment.

Magic sealed this door to prevent sensitive and powerful information from falling into the wrong hands. Only someone with great power and knowledge would be able to find this room. If a hand other than his broke the seal, another spell would flare and set the contents of this room ablaze. One day, he would attune the spells to his mate.

Laying his hand on the door and discharging another slipstream of magic, Derek released the seal. Stepping inside, his skin tingled from all the magic he had in place to protect the contents of this room. One of those spells filled the room with light upon his entrance.

Nooks cut deep into the rock filled three of the four walls. Several scrolls sat in each one of the holes located on both sides of the room. The wall opposite the entrance contained stone shelves filled with magical items as well as tomes of spells. All of these items were very old. Most of the books on these shelves had protection spells built into them. If the reader did not possess the proper power, the lettering would dance on the pages before their eyes. It would be a while before he took one of those to teach Stiles.

Maps filled the nooks on the wall adjacent to the door. Treasured, rare and proven to be precise, Peter kept them here with Derek’s scrolls to preserve them.

He went to the wall on the left, near the corner, and pulled out one of the scrolls from a hip-high cranny. Pulling the leather tie off, he glanced at it before he rerolled and secured it, and then checked another. After several scrolls, he found three he wanted to use to begin his lessons.

After resealing the door and igniting the glamour spell over it once again, Derek made his way up the stairs and into the early morning pall. The keep was as quiet as it ever was, though he could hear the attendants setting up the dining rooms for first meal.

Scott had already lit the candelabra that hung over the table along with the sconces lining the wall and the fireplace by the time Derek stepped into his office. He set the scrolls at one end of the table, as well as some other things for his first day training Stiles.

Servants entered with an urn of cold buttermilk and a tray of food before leaving silently. He did not have to wait long before hearing a quiet rap on the door.

“Enter,” he bid.

Derek had been sitting at the table when Stiles stepped into the room. The lad wore a tawny colored jacket and leggings. Just the sight of him set Derek’s heart racing. Add to that the pull Derek felt for the enticing man, and he struggled with himself to stay seated and not go to him. He longed to run his fingers over the close cut hair at the side of Stiles’ head and cup his face. Most of all, Derek hungered to lean down and brush his lips against the smaller man’s mouth.

Visions of taking the reedy lad filled his head, having him prone and wanting beneath Derek’s larger frame. He wondered what it would be like to spread Stiles open, slide into that tight, virginal body, and bury himself deep inside his mate. What would it be like buried inside a pull as strong as Stiles’ was?

Derek fought with himself to keep control before he did something he would forever regret.

Staring at the lad, he saw that Stiles’ eyes were dark with desire as they met Derek’s, and he imagined his own were, as well. He would have to do much better at controlling himself if he wanted to train his apprentice. Close quarters with the man would make it difficult to concentrate on teaching, but he would persevere. The sooner Stiles was elevated, the sooner Derek could claim his mate.

Indicating the side of the oval table where the trays of food sat, he bid Stiles to take a seat. “We shall begin each day by breaking our fast. I have much to teach you, and food is an important part of that.”

Stiles sat, and when Derek began serving him food, he could see panic in the smaller man’s eyes. “Sit. The lessons begin here.”

His apprentice settled, but remained tense when Derek continued to stand. “When using magic, it takes strength, knowledge and power to not harm one’s self. The knowledge is important, not only to perform spells, but to know when to stop. Strength is necessary, not only to accomplish your goal, but also to hold back, and only use as much as necessary. Power is what you have to work with.

“An example of power would be the milk in this urn, and strength would be how fast I pour it. If I fill your mug too fast, it will overflow and waste your milk, or strength. Unlike this urn, you must never completely drain your power if you are alone. Sorcerers who do not heed this have become mere shells of their former selves, many of them dying. That is where knowledge comes in.

“It is always safer if you have another sorcerer with you, _if_ it is someone you can trust with your life. They can gage your power, and share their own strength with you, refilling you. In essence, this will increase your power in the process. It is also possible to use another’s magic, together with your own, increasing the strength you have to work with. Only try this if you have the proper knowledge, otherwise great harm can befall both of you. Thus, knowledge is necessary to prevent depletion of not only yourself, but others whom you help, or help you.”

Derek had filled a mug with buttermilk and set it on the table. Stiles finally relaxed and sat back, giving Derek his full attention. Derek pulled the cover off one of the trays and began filling a platter. “Food from the earth is best for replenishing power. That would include all fruits and vegetables, as well as meat off the hoof. Foods from the sea and the birds of the sky are of no refilling or healing value. One of the sorcerers I traveled with found a certain mixture of herbs, steeped in boiling water, to be extremely useful as a cure, though it is vile to drink.”

He sat beside Stiles after filling their shared trencher. They each took a bite in silence, but the heat in Stiles’ eyes spoke volumes to the desire Derek felt.

After a second bite, Derek chose a juicy chunk of orange, and put it to Stiles’ mouth. Stiles face filled with surprise, but Derek felt great satisfaction that Stiles had not fought him. He chose a chunk of fruit for himself and watched the younger man as he finished his piece.

Derek was lifting another prime morsel toward Stiles, when Stiles spoke for the first time since he entered the room. “Master, I am whole. I can feed myself. There is no need for you to tend me.”

“You called me Master, yet you are free. Do you still think of me as your master?” Derek asked, keeping his face a mask.

“Yes, I do. You are the one I have sought my whole life. I am yours! I should be serving you, not the other way around.”

“If I am your master, am I not allowed to do that which makes me happy? Am I not allowed to feed you by hand when we are alone together, if I want to?”

The twist of questions temporarily seemed to confuse Stiles. Derek watched his face closely as pride stepped out of the way and he submitted easily to ‘his master’. He spent the rest of his time as they broke their fast by slipping bits of food into both of their mouths. Often, the lad’s tongue licked over his fingers before he could pull them away. First meal turned into a special type of erotic torture him, one that Derek planned to relive, moment by moment, when his head hit his pillow that night.

Once first meal was finished, and the empty platters were set aside, Derek directed Stiles to the other end of the table to sit. Picking up one of the scrolls, Derek opened it in front of Stiles and weighted the corners down so it would not roll up again.

“I have given you an idea of how magic works. Now it is time to help you connect to yours.”

Stiles glanced at the scroll and then up and over his shoulder at Derek. It was easy to tell from the lust-filled expression that what he wanted to learn was not on that scroll.

Derek was still aroused from the way his boy submitted to him, it was not as if he could not understand, but this time was for lessons. He leaned down and tapped on the scroll. “This will be a waste of time if you do not focus. If you keep your mind on your lessons, you may learn to increase your abilities.”

Stiles sighed. “I believe it may be difficult for me to concentrate at the moment.”

Well, submissive just flew out the window. It was obvious the lad’s mind was on the tightness of his leggings. He would have to teach the boy control, and quickly, if he were to have any hope of him touching his magic. Derek was very careful to give nothing away with his expression. “You said that you would obey me. Is that true?”

“Yes, Master, I am yours.”

Derek leaned down over Stiles, with one arm on the boy’s shoulder and the other on the table. Talking quietly, and close enough to his ear that Stiles would feel his lips moving, Derek knew he was stooping very low by what he was about to do. “Our purpose here is to enable you to access your magic, yet you do not want to concentrate on the task at hand. As my apprentice, you are mine to pamper or punish. You agreed to be my apprentice, so I believe your lack of focus on our task is a call for punishment. Until I give you permission, you will not touch yourself, nor spill your seed, no matter how much it aches. Is that understood?”

Stiles’ wide eyes met his as emotions flew across the lad’s face. After many moments, he closed both his eyes and his mouth. Derek watched as his boy accepted the mantle of submission with only minor resistance.

“Yes, Master. I am yours.”

“Three times now you have said you are mine. Words have power. Words said in threes have a power unto themselves. You must guard your words well, for you have power to add to them.”

“Yes, Master.”

For the remainder of the morning, Stiles kept to the task of reading scrolls and trying to touch his well of power. Although he had never succeeded in accessing it, Derek had been impressed that the lad had kept his mind on his learning. The time he had to work with Stiles seemed to speed by.

When Derek knew the time for noon meal was nigh, he shared how proud he was of his apprentice. “You have proven you can keep your mind on your tasks. We shall forget your punishment this time. Pray, do not force me to correct you so again.”

Stiles met his gaze and nodded in agreement.

All too quickly, Scott was at the door, waiting to take Stiles to the dining room for noon meal. “Lord Peter requires you in his office, my Lord,” Scott told him, and then headed down the corridor with his charge. Stiles turned and looked back at him, and from Stiles’ expression, he did not want to leave Derek any more than Derek wanted to see him go.

After tying the scrolls, he put them in the secret alcove in his bedroom, and protected them with spells before again hiding them behind an illusion of a blank wall. Other than a few scrolls, the only other thing he kept in this niche was his sword.

Legends said that the dragons themselves had made his sword, and had bestowed it upon one of his ancestors. Ridiculous tales, although it was made of a rare metal that kept its edge, no matter what it struck. His father had given it to him the day he left to begin his training with the Sorcerer Noshiko. By the age of twelve, he had been quite proficient in the use of knife, sword, and mace, for his weapons training had begun shortly after he learned to walk.

Enough with the wool gathering, he told himself. He had things to attend to, and stepped out of his rooms and across the corridor as Aiden opened the door for him to enter.

Crossing the threshold, he found Peter seated behind his desk, a board of food off to the side. Obviously, they would not be taking time away from the problems of state to stop and eat.

He had no sooner sat down when Peter began asking about Stiles, which surprised Derek. Now that Stiles was on the path to his destiny, he thought the lad would not weigh on his uncle’s mind.

“So, how did our magical prodigy fare today? Was he able to memorize any deathly spells? Perhaps still the beating of his last master’s heart? No? Well, all the same, I am happy to find our keep still standing around us.”

“No, he was unable to touch the source for his power. It was only our first day together. Strong as his pull is, I do not expect it to take very long for him to be able to use his magic,” Derek replied.

“You once told me that you had been able to touch your source the day you were tested. If he is as strong as you think, should he not be able to do the same?” Peter queried.

“How am I to know? I was a mere lad at the time I was tested. Magic had just developed itself inside me, and the feel of it was as odd as the empty spaces in my mouth when I lost my milk teeth. Stiles is grown, and it is completely possible that he is expecting the feel of his magic as being something odd, whereas he may be accustomed to touching it every day.”

“Is it possible that the obvious tension between the two of you may be the cause of his failure? We have determined the lad is the one from the legacy. You must not defile him, or cause his life to become unbearable! One day he will become your husband and mate. According to the legacy, it is imperative that you wait until that time.”

Derek supposed the ‘tension’ between them was obvious, and he stifled a chuckle, for he knew this was no laughing matter. “Stiles insists upon calling me ‘Master’, and for the first time, I do not detest the term. Since he is my apprentice, I shall allow it. It is something he seems to need, and although he is made of steel where others are concerned, he is determined to serve me. Rest assured, dear uncle, I will protect him and keep him chaste.”

Peter watched him before continuing. “You know the risks. I will allow you to make your own relationship with him. In the meantime, is it possible the spell in his inking is making it difficult for him to touch his power?”

Derek pondered that thought for a moment. “I do not think so. Perhaps tomorrow shall show more positive results.” Derek hoped.

Peter pulled the food closer to them, and they ate as they began their business of the day. The first topic Peter brought up was raiders attacking one of the seaside villages. Boats had been docking at night and raiding the storage houses there, pirating necessary stocks that feed the villagers through the cooler months. They discussed details, and decided to send warriors to the villages to await the next raid.

Normally, Derek himself would have gone to handle the problem, but they felt this show of strength would work just as well. If the facts about the raids were accurate, the Monarch would forgo his taxes on those villages until after the next harvest.

They went on to the next item of business, a thief caught down in the town of Kelderbury at the keep’s walls.

The day seemed to drag on forever. Between pieces of business, Derek hoped he would get the chance to spend some time with Stiles before he retired for the evening, but it looked less likely with each new problem Peter brought up. It was almost as if the fates were trying to keep them apart.


	7. A Perfect Memory

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Stiles was disappointed to find Scott waiting at the door to take him to noon meal. He did not want to leave Master Derek’s side when Scott came for him. He could see from his master’s eyes that the sorcerer felt the same. He had enjoyed apprenticing with his master, but he had also felt disenchanted. He had not yet been able to touch the source of his magic.

Walking from his master’s suite, Stiles realized that Scott was much cooler toward him than usual. Stiles wondered if it was something he had said, or if Scott were tired, or having a disagreement with Allison. He was very quiet while they dined. Finally, Stiles could take it no longer.

“Does something ail you? I feel as though I am sitting here by myself, quiet as you are. You and Allison did not have a spat, did you?” Stiles queried.

“I am well, Sir,” Scott responded.

Stiles almost fell off the bench as his arms flew out in surprise. _Sir?_ “I thought we were friends. Why do you call me ‘Sir’?”

For the first time since Scott had brought him to the dining room, he met Stiles’ eyes. “You are a free man. My Lord has apprenticed you, and you are to be tutored in Lordly ways. Why would you want to have a servant as a friend?”

The friendship so freely given to Stiles on the day he had arrived left a void inside him, now that it was gone. He had never had a friend before, and he was hurt to find this one so easily lost. Betrayal, sadness and hurt filled him, all because of the change in his caste. A change he had never even dreamed could be possible. He sat speechless, mouth gaping as he stared at the other lad. There was hurt in Scott’s eyes, also.

Stiles finally found his tongue. “You were the first person to befriend me when I came to this strange place, and you think I would forget that because of a chance twist of fate? Your friendly smiles and teasing were always a comfort. I enjoy your company and do not want to lose your friendship. Pray, do not allow the good luck that has befallen me change things between us.”

“Do you mean that?” Scott asked, the hurt slowly bleeding from his eyes.

“Yes, I mean that! You are the first friend I ever had as a slave. You are the closest thing I have ever had to a brother. Think of it; as brothers, we would always have the other one to cover for us, to keep each other out of trouble. I certainly do not forsake you, and I hope you do not withhold yourself from me.”

The gleam was back in Scott’s eyes, and they smiled and lightly slapped each other on the shoulders. The commotion they made caused the diners at the nearest tables all to turn toward them. When the two of them realized that, they quieted down and returned to eating.

“I thought for sure you would hold yourself above befriending a mere servant. The two others that the Monarch freed quickly forgot their old friends,” Scott explained.

“I consider you a brother and will not forsake you,” Stiles confirmed as they finished their noon meal.

When they finished eating, Scott showed him the way to Mister Deaton’s room in the south wing, talking about Allison the whole way there. Stiles felt no urge to interrupt, relishing in the kinship he still had with his friend. Scott left him at the door, promising to return and take him to his next set of instructions.

Mister Deaton’s room was comfortably cool, even with the bright sun shining in the second floor windows lighting the quarters. It felt good to see the man and his easy smile again. After a short welcome and a few polite words between them, Stiles had a seat at the table where Mister Deaton indicated.

The man had a knack for tutoring. With a large, open tome before Stiles, Mister Deaton made something as dry as learning the country’s laws, interesting and filled with anecdotes. Even though it was far from boring, Stiles quickly grew weary of sitting. And learning. He felt as if his brain were turning into mush.

Finally, Scott showed up and led him out to the stables. The stables consisted of several very large barns that all opened to different paddocks. All the buildings and fencing were whitewashed and bright, and each structure could easily hold over four score horses! Stiles could not have imagined that many horses in one place before!

Stiles remembered how he used to love watching the horses at Master Gerard’s estate, and he suspected he was going to love riding.

Scott led him to the first building, where an older man, perhaps forty summers, stepped through the doors. He was better dressed than the young stable hands running around in their tunics and bare feet. The man was tall and thin, wiry even in his brown pants and jerkin. His receding light-brown hair was in a warrior’s queue, and his skin was weathered. Obviously, the man spent all of his years out of doors.

Scott stayed long enough to introduce him as Mister Tate and then returned to his own chores.

“I have been told I am to make an expert rider out of you. Have you ever ridden before?” Mister Tate asked.

“No, sir. The only experience I have with horses is taking a cart and pony to market,” Stiles confessed.

“Well, then. We are going to start with the basics and work our way up. The first thing you need to know is how to groom a horse. Horses rely on their riders to feed and groom them when away from the keep. You have to be calm and confident in handling your horses. If the horses feel you are nervous or uncomfortable, they will be harder to control.

“We can start here in the mares’ stable. I will show you where to find the feed and brushes and then you can begin with Sara here. She is very gentle.”

Mister Tate took him on a short tour and then picked up two brushes, one for each of them. After working with Stiles, first on Sara and then another mare, Mister Tate watched as he handled and groomed three more horses. Other than giving Stiles a suggestion or two, Mister Tate was quiet. Stiles enjoyed this much more than sitting and learning about the laws of the land, even though his arms grew weary from all the brushing. All the same, time seemed to fly by. Before he knew it, Scott came to take him to evening dinner. By that time, the sun was setting on the horizon.

After his meal, Scott led him down to the second floor of the north wing. Studying all day and working with the horses had worn him out, and with his belly full, he only wanted to nap. Unfortunately, a nap was obviously out of the question. As they walked down the corridor, a thought hit Stiles.

“Hey. I thought you said the only wing that was cool and comfortable was the one the Lords reside in. Were you making fun of me?”

Scott laughed. “No, but you should have seen your face, brother! You believed me! I wondered how long it would take you to figure that out.”

“So, why is it cool in the keep when it is so hot outside?” Stiles asked.

“Seriously? I know not, but it may be because Sertonan Keep is built so deep into the rocks here,” Scott replied and shrugged his shoulders.

They stopped before a door, and Scott rapped once. The door opened to an olive skinned man with dark hair and rounded features. He was about Stiles height, perhaps taller, wore a blue jacket and leggings, and smiled easily.

“Mister Yukimura, this is your new charge, Stiles. Stiles, will you be able to find your way to your room when you are finished?”

“Yes. Thank you for all your help today. Get some rest. I shall be fine.”

“Gratitude,” Scott declared, and with that, he turned and left.

Sconces flickered around the room as Mister Yukimura began his lesson on a map of the area near the keep. A massive candelabrum hung over the large table where it lay, weights holding down all the corners. He had to work around the shadows that hindered his sight, but he soon got the knack of it.

Beginning at the keep, Mister Yukimura worked his way outward, and showed Stiles the route he had taken when he had left Master Gerard’s estate. He was able to see how the land he had known around the estate, as well as the nearby town, appeared on a map. That heightened his interest to learn more. By the time he left Mister Yukimura’s office, he understood how that portion of the map told what the lay of the land was, and how it could help to decide what routes to take.

When they were finished and he was leaving the room, Stiles realized he had not expected the man would have been able to hold his interest with map reading, especially after a large meal. Yet Stiles had found it very stimulating and interesting.

His hand slid over the highly polished wood banister as he slowly climbed the stairs to his room. His first day of lessons had exhausted him. He could not believe the tutoring had lasted from first thing in the morning to late in the evening. The worst part about it was he had not seen or felt Lord Derek’s pull even once since he had left his master’s suite that morning. He stopped at the second floor riser in the hopes of basking in that pull before retiring for the night, but he felt nothing.

Sighing, he continued up the steps to his own room. He thought back over his day. Other than occasional boredom, it had not been nearly as bad as he had expected it to be.

Stiles stepped into his room and closed the door. The bed looked so inviting, but after the day he’d had, he stepped up to the urn of water and poured some into the bowl. Then he removed his clothes and began washing himself.

 _If nothing else,_ Stiles thought, _I will at least know my way around the keep!_ Stiles wiped the water from his face and hands, and he hoped he washed the smell of the stables off completely. He stepped over to his clothing closet for a sleeping gown.

He may have fallen asleep before his head ever hit the fluffy, down pillow.

* * *

Stiles entered Master Derek’s office to find him wearing a light brown jacket and matching pants. He could just make out muscles bulging in the tightest places, and it made Stiles mouth water. While he had never drooled over anyone before, man or woman, he wanted his master to the point of aching for him.

Master was standing beside one of the chairs pulled away from the table. Stiles took the seat beside the one his master waited by. There was one trencher situated between them, food already in platters on the table, covered and waiting. Master Derek removed the cover from the fruit, selected a piece and poised it before Stiles lips.

Before he could complain that he could feed himself, his master spoke. “I want to take care of you and protect you in every way possible. I am indulging myself by feeding you by hand, knowing full well that it is a distraction to both of us. I prefer to continue this, nevertheless.”

Stiles watched the emotions playing across Derek's face, from power to lust and finally to resignation before he spoke again. “When we rise from first meal to begin your studies, it is important for both of us to disregard the pull, and concentrate on the tasks at hand. Can you do that, Stiles?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Good! Know that you are the only one I have ever permitted to call me ‘Master’. I will allow this only in these rooms. Outside these rooms, it is either ‘Lord’ or ‘Derek’.” The Lord then began filling their trencher with food.

“I understand. Master?” Stiles asked timidly.

Derek’s hand lowered as he returned his full focus on Stiles. “You have a question?”

“Yes, Master. I understand that my purity is tied to the land. I accept that I must remain pure, possibly for the remainder of my life. What will happen when my life ends?”

Stiles watched as his master’s eyes grew wide with his words and then shut tightly. There was a pause as his master slowly expelled a breath, finally spearing him with his glance. “You will not have to remain pure your whole life. On your wedding bed, your chastity will be taken, as foretold in the prophecy.”

Those words did nothing to ease Stiles’ mind. “I wish only to serve you, Master! I have no desire to marry another. I shall stay by your side until my last breath. That exceeds any desire I have to lose my purity.”

Stiles could accept his fate, so long as he could remain at his master’s side. The expression on Master’s face confused him, though. It was as if he were having an argument with himself.

After many long moments, his master finally began to talk. “You say you have no desire to marry another and want to remain by my side. You are a free man. One day, your position shall be elevated to that of sorcerer. That is a caste high enough to wed even another sorcerer.”

It took a long moment for those words to sink in. Their meaning stunned Stiles to silent awe as they studied each other’s faces. “Master… Are you saying… Will that include… You?”

“Yes,” the sorcerer stated.

“You would share a wedding bed with someone who was once a slave?”

“I would only consider such a union if the once-slave were you.”

The deep rumble of his master’s voice, the soft gaze of his eyes, told Stiles of the emotion - the desire, the love that filled his master, emotion that seemed to match what was near to overwhelming himself. Never in his life had he ever considered a wedding bed, let alone one so lofty. To be by his master’s side, always, and to share the bed and life of the man he had hoped to find for so long? He had only met the Lord, what, seven days ago? Yet he found his feelings had grown for the man daily and filled Stiles’ dreams nightly. However, a dream, any dream, so far from his reach, had to be just that: a dream. “What of the Monarch, your uncle? Surely, he would not allow one such as me to marry his sole nephew.”

“You have not told me your thoughts on the subject.”

Just the thought of sharing feelings, serious feelings, was something that made Stiles very uncomfortable. “I would give anything to share your life and bed. When I was but a child, you are the one I was told I would meet. Not that we would meet when I was a child; only that I was told as a child.” Stiles long fingers spread out in awkward angles as he gestured wildly with his hands. When he realized what he was doing, he clasped them firmly on his lap and took a breath. “Nevertheless, I am not a child now. I would do anything to stay by your side. What was once only an image in my mind now has a face: yours. However, my feelings are as unimportant as the sands that blow in the wind, sure as I am that the Monarch would not bless such a union as his nephew with a slave.”

A smirk graced the sorcerer’s face, and a sparkle shone in his eyes. “Perhaps we should take the time to study the prophecy today. In the meantime, we should break our fast.”

To stay at this man’s side was all that he wanted, but if this were to be the most he would have, so be it. Opening his mouth, Stiles took the morsel his master held before him. He closed his lips around the fingers and licked the juice off before they pulled away completely. The fruit was sweet and tasty, but not nearly as sweet as his master’s touch.

Once they had broken their fast, they began his studies. Stiles was determined to touch his power this day, but it was to no avail. Before their time ended, Derek rolled up the scrolls, set them aside, and stepped into his bedchamber. When he returned, he held a scroll loosely in his hand, and he led Stiles out of the room and toward the Monarch’s suites. The thought of studying the prophecy with Peter scared Stiles. He was afraid it would put a hex on his luck and set the Monarch against him before he ever had a chance.

“Master, please, let us not pursue this subject with your uncle until I am more adapt with my powers. I do not wish to have the Monarch judging me and finding me lacking.” Stiles spoke quietly and hurriedly.

Stopping just outside the door, Master Derek took Stiles’ chin and forced him to meet his master’s eyes. “Did I not tell you, that term is not to be heard outside my suite? You are a free man, so you shall call me by my title.” Though quietly said, the spoken words held much authority; Stiles felt fully reprimanded.

“My apologies, my Lord. It will not happen again.” Mentally, he separated his ‘Master’ from his ‘Lord’ from ‘Derek’. They each had their time and place, and Stiles would be sure to never repeat that mistake.

“Good. Now come. My uncle will not hinder my request to study the scrolls in his chambers, nor will he stand in anybody’s way in the future. You will see.” Derek turned the hold he had on Stiles' chin into a caress before dropping his hand.

They stepped up to the door as one of the guard twins tapped on it and informed Peter that they were there. When they stepped into his office, they found Peter behind his desk, velum and scrolls scattered all over it.

“Well, good morrow to you both. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?” he asked.

“I think it may be time for Stiles to study the prophecy,” Derek answered and held up the scroll in his hand for Peter to see.

Peter glanced at Stiles, who stood to the side, before focusing on Derek again. “I thought you were going to wait for a more appropriate time before you studied that.”

“And so I have,” Derek stated.

“Might I ask the revelation that begat for this decision?” Peter asked.

Derek smiled slightly. “Well, how would you feel if you thought you had to live your whole life chastely? He wishes to be tied to me.”

Peter looked toward Stiles again, and there was no way Stiles could stop the blush he could feel warming his face. “I see.”

Derek cleared enough room on the desk to spread out the ancient scroll. Once Peter had the corners weighted down to hold it open, they all stepped up to it.

Stiles looked at the yellowing page with its fading words and silently read.

_When the one born heir abdicates for ancient Magic, the seat shall fill with blood unprepared. Beware; this is the sign of dire times to come._

The one true mate has the power to save the land. Lower in caste, the pull of a strong spark will tell. Glamour will suffice to expose poseurs from mate.

Chaos will awaken from their chance meeting, Ever working to rend their growing powers apart, For united is the power to destroy this life’s Chaos.

If this mate has proven to be resilient and wise, Then purity and chastity upon their wedding bed Shall guarantee peace and prosperity in the land.

If life’s embrace has defiled and ravaged this mate, Then the sullied sheets will precede the bloodshed, While famine spreads throughout the barren lands.

Stiles’ heart was beating faster by the time he finished reading. He looked up to his lord and master, finding Derek’s eyes already upon him, not on the prophecy. “Mate? You are my ‘mate’?” he asked quietly.

“So it seems,” Derek replied, his yellowish-green eyes darkening to almost brown, which sent heat to Stiles’ nethers.

 _My mate!_ Stiles’ wildest dreams could never reach that lofty height. Now he understood why Derek was so sure the Monarch would not fight a union between them. Someday, this man would take him to their wedding bed, and wrap Stiles in his pull, his arms, his love. They were destined to be together!

Peter cleared his throat, and that pulled him away from his thoughts. “Perhaps I should leave you two alone to finish whatever conversation it is that you are having with your eyes.”

Stiles felt his face heat in embarrassment as he pulled his focus from Derek, his Lord, his Master, his _Mate_ , and looked back toward the faded words on the scroll.

“After reading the prophecy, _that_ was the only question you can come up with?” the Monarch asked. Yes, it was the Monarch speaking now, not Peter. Stiles had decided there were two very different personalities in the man when they were together.

He quickly read over the scroll again, his eyes catching and his heart racing over the word _mate_ again. This time, though, he spotted something else and pointed to it. “What does this mean? ” _Chaos will awaken from their chance meeting; Ever working to rend their growing powers apart For United is power to destroy this life’s Chaos_

Once again, Derek answered. “Chaos is a powerful negative force of magic. The way we understand it, the stronger you get, the harder it will work to separate us. We shall have to keep our eyes open to its tricks to prevent that from happening. It can come in any form. The weather, people, animals, even our thoughts can be subject to its power.”

“I do not understand. People can be Chaos?”

“Chaos has the power to use people by invading their thoughts, and having them act against us. The same as if it invaded our heads, giving us turbulent thoughts and ideas, possibly causing one of us to want to strike out against the other.

“According to this, our powers shall grow together. I suspect the stronger we become, the harder Chaos will fight to separate us.”

Stiles thought about Derek’s words and decided Chaos could fight them all it wanted. There was no way he would ever turn from this man. His pull brought a comfort and excitement he had never felt before, and the man was everything and everyone he could ever want; Master, Lord, and Mate!

With his thoughts settled, he returned his focus to the scroll. He touched below the words ‘wedding bed’. “And this?” he asked.

“Now that you have seen this, do you still believe Peter would prevent me from taking you as my own once you are elevated as a sorcerer?” Derek asked.

Stiles turned and looked at Peter. “You would allow your nephew to marry a slave?” Stiles put the words as carefully and crudely as he could, making sure of Peter’s answer.

“No, I would not allow my nephew to marry a slave. However, if an ex-slave were to elevate himself to sorcerer, I would bless that union.” Peter’s eyes burned into his, and Stiles’ heart soared. Until Peter continued, that is. “By the by, how _are_ your studies with my nephew coming along?”

Stiles’ heart sank. “Not so well,” he replied quietly.

“Really? I have word that you are doing amazingly well with your other tutors. Mister Deaton and Mister Yukimura both say that your memory is remarkable. Mister Tate tells me your touch with the horses is calm and precise. Why do you think you are having problems learning from Derek? Is he a distraction? Should we send you to learn from others throughout the land?”

“Stiles is having problems touching his power, so it may not be a bad idea to send for Deucalion. He has been doing this many decades longer than I have. Maybe he can help where I am failing. Nevertheless, we are not sending Stiles to where I cannot protect him,” Derek stated firmly.

“Then I shall summon Deucalion to court. The missive will go out directly. Is there anything else you will need from me?” Peter asked.

“No, I believe that is all for now,” Derek replied.

“Then take yourselves back to your own suite, Derek. I have work to finish this morn and will need you in attendance later,” Peter stated, and set about returning the scroll to Derek’s care.

“As you wish. Later, Uncle.”

“My gratitude for your time, Peter,” Stiles replied.

“Any time, Stiles,” Peter returned fondly.

They had just stepped up to his master’s chambers when Scott came around the corner. Stiles wished he could remain with his master and hated the thought of leaving him. He looked to his master, hoping the man would keep him here, but only found regret in his master’s eyes as he turned back to his door.

“I will see you first thing on the morrow, Stiles.”

Stiles nodded with this dismissal, and followed Scott to the dining hall.

Council was in session, so instead of seeing Mister Deaton, Scott led Stiles to Miss Braeden’s room in the south wing. She was much younger than Stiles was expecting: perhaps the same age as his master. She had long, black hair that framed her face. She had dark skin, beautiful kohl lined eyes, and a winning smile. Miss Braeden was as tall as Stiles, and was full of poise and gracefulness.

Her room was large, but the lesson seemed wholly unnecessary to Stiles. It seemed that everything Miss Braeden spoke of, he had learned at an early age.

By the end of the day when he trudged his way up the stairs to his bed, his limbs numb, eyes half closed and burning, mind void of thought, sleep was all he had on his mind.

* * *

The days continued to pass, and Stiles remained unable to touch his magic, although he excelled in his other tutelage. With each new day, Stiles grew to hate the time he spent away from his Master more than the day before, and it was obvious that Master Derek felt the same way.

Almost a fortnight after the Monarch had sent the summons, Stiles stepped into his master’s study for his lessons to find that his master was not alone. That morning, a man with long, light-brown hair stood by the table. His muscular frame was difficult to ignore under his tan robe. A short beard framed the man’s ageless face. Stiles had never seen the man before, but he was sure this man was a sorcerer.

“Stiles, this is sorcerer Deucalion. He will be assisting in your studies.” Master, no, Lord Derek, then looked toward the other sorcerer. “Deucalion, this is Stiles, my apprentice and the one mentioned in the augury.”

Deucalion stood and clasped arms with Stiles. When the man smiled, his face became a map of age lines. He was of a height with Stiles, and his eyes were a deep, dark gray. “It is good to meet you! Derek has searched for you for so very long,” he exclaimed, his voice filled with an accent that Stiles had never before heard.

“And so with you,” Stiles replied.

“Let us all have a seat and break our fast before we begin,” Lord Derek suggested. He then sat at the end of the large oval table, while Deucalion and Stiles took seats to each side of him.

There was much talk between the sorcerers, catching each other up on all that had happened since they had last seen each other. They tried to involve Stiles in their conversation, but he was content to just listen. Once the meal had ended, Deucalion focused on Stiles.

“Where are you from originally, Stiles?”

“Rogarnia, in the town of Denant. I helped my… I assisted a shopkeeper there.” Stiles was not sure if he was to keep his slave status quiet from this man.

Deucalion did not seem to notice the slip and continued talking. “Rogarnia? That is very far to the north. I was there once. I hear it gets cold in the darker months,” he shared, seemingly trying to get Stiles to open up.

“It does, and I hated to leave the warmth of the hearth that time of year.”

“Stiles, Deucalion is a trusted friend. He knows of your background.” Lord Derek spoke quietly. Obviously, he did not miss Stiles’ slip.

“I did not know, my Lord. My gratitude for informing me.”

“You may call me Derek here. Deucalion and I do not stand on ceremony and never have.”

“Again, my gratitude, Derek.”

“I spoke long with Peter after I arrived, yesterday. He tells me that you have excelled in all of your tutoring. I hear you have a remarkable memory,” Deucalion stated.

Stiles found it difficult to believe Peter had praised him so loftily, and felt undeserving of said regard. “I seem to be having no problems with the studies Peter has granted me.”

“I have heard you can recite a law, word for word, a whole day after hearing it for the first time,” Deucalion prodded.

“My memory has always been sharp,” Stiles explained.

Deucalion then jumped onto a different subject like a fox in a den of rabbits. “The marking on your arm looks new. The colors are very bright. Derek has one of the same delineation. Are they connected?”

Stiles looked to Derek, who seemed quite unconcerned by Deucalion’s question. “Yes, soon after my arrival, he asked me to be marked and spoke a spell to unite them.” He simply could not fathom why Deucalion asked him these questions, or why he left Derek out of the conversation completely.

“So, that has been a fortnight ago, yes?”

“Yes. Perhaps Derek could explain more about it than I am able to,” Stiles prompted, hoping the man would present this line of questions to Derek.

“Do you remember the chant he said over your arm?” Deucalion asked.

Again, Stiles looked to Derek. The man looked unperturbed with the direction of the conversation, so he returned his focus to Deucalion. While he had not understood a word of what Derek had been saying over his arm, he remembered it all the same. “Yes, sir, I do.” Then he proceeded to rattle off the chant.

Deucalion’s expression changed, and a grin cracked his face almost as if he were proud of what he had accomplished. Derek’s face, on the other hand, held surprised shock.

“How did you do that? Those words should have slipped through your mind, as water does a sieve. As they do with anyone not trained in sorcery,” Derek exclaimed, his voice was high and excited.

Stiles felt nothing except confusion, though.

“The lad’s remarkable memory is nothing short of magic. He uses it every day, right under your nose, and you are blind to it. A memory as perfect as his takes years to perfect, yet, in Stiles it comes as naturally as breathing. Yet to do something as simple as lighting a flame is out of his reach. It almost seems as if the core of his magic has somehow been blocked.”

Deucalion then turned his attention from Derek back to Stiles. “Have you ever had someone, a stranger perhaps, put their hands on your head with a chant?”

“No,” Stiles replied quietly. He had no memory of anything like that ever happening.

Deucalion stood and stepped around the table to stand beside Stiles. “Well, we are going to have to find a way to help you find your power. May I?” he asked, with his hands outstretched by Stiles’ head.

Nervously, he sought out Derek with his eyes, who very calmly, gave a slight nod. If Derek trusted this man, he should trust him as well. Should he not? “What are you going to do?” he asked instead.

“I would like to follow a stream of power and see if I can find anything out of the normal. It will not hurt. I will only be seeking,” Deucalion assured.

After glancing at Derek again, and seeing the unruffled expression on his face, Stiles agreed with a nod. Standing behind him, Deucalion worked his fingers through Stiles’ hair until they were touching skin. Stiles sat quietly, not knowing what to expect. Before long, Deucalion pulled his hands away and returned to his seat.

Alternating his focus from Stiles to Derek, Deucalion sighed. “I could sense nothing wrong, yet when I tried to find a way through to his well of power, it felt as if I were sliding through something thick and slippery. Someone, or something, has blocked him from touching his power. I have never seen anything like this before. It prevented me, although I could get no _sense_ of it, whatever _it_ is. If not for the proof against it, I would guess Stiles to be without any power at all. Nevertheless, we know that cannot be true. It takes powerful magic to recall the words of a spell. To be able to know you through glamour is more proof. I am not sure if it is to prevent him from touching his power core, or to keep him hidden, because the barrier certainly does that.”

“What do you mean, keep me hidden?” Stiles asked.

“There is a group of us, the sorcerers’ council, which travel the land after the summer solstice, seeking youths with power. Once a certain level is attained, a master sorcerer can sense magic in others. You give off no such feeling,” Deucalion explained with his musical accent.

“Why did you go through his skull to find his core? The core would be near his solar plexus,” Derek inquired.

“When I block a person from his power, which I have had to do, I block it at the source for the user, which is the brain,” Deucalion shared with them.

“You have blocked a sorcerer from his power? Why would you do that?” Stiles questioned.

“Besides seeking youths with latent magic, the council also works to protect the land from those who would abuse their skills, those who cause harm or terrorize the people of their communities. When we hear of such magic users, we do the only thing we can, short of slaying them. We cut them off from their power.”

“Yet you stated you have never seen anything like the block Stiles has? Who could have done that to him?” Derek asked.

“I do not know of anyone with the kind of power to build a shield like that,” Deucalion shared, and then he looked to Stiles. “Even untrained, it is obvious you are very strong; powerful enough that magic leaks into your daily use. Were your parents also sorcerers?”

“My mother was a midwife, but I do not believe she had any unusual powers. My father, well, I think that might have been Master Alexander, and if he had any power, he would have saved the mistress. I would have to guess they were not sorcerers.”

“Well, until we can find a way for you to break through this shield, we shall teach you what we can.” Deucalion then directed his attention to Derek. “Perhaps on the morrow, you should bring a tome of incantations to class. Let us see what the lad can do.”

* * *

Fortnights turned into cycles of the moon. Stiles and Derek were unable to spend any time alone, other than an occasional first meal. Deucalion sometimes went to the dining hall or to Peter’s suite when he did not break his fast with the sorcerers.

With Stiles’ remarkable memory, it had not been long before Miss Braeden had proclaimed he knew all that she could teach him. After the first lesson or two from Mister Yukimura, map reading had moved on to the histories of the land.

Stiles’ lessons in the stables were going well, also. Caring for the horses had gradually turned into riding them. While he was far from an expert, he could now calmly sit a horse without falling off.

He saw no end in sight with Mister Deaton, though. While he could remember all the laws word for word, Mister Deaton had only worked his way through half the first tome of laws, and the logic behind them.

A moon ago, his daily lessons had been altered. After apprenticing with Derek and Deucalion in the mornings, two days were dedicated to Mister Deaton and learning the laws and the theories behind them. His riding lessons were the following two days at the time he normally met with Mister Deaton. He had one day with Mister Yukimura after that. On the following day, he was granted time after his apprenticeship to himself. Then the cycle repeated itself.

His only tutoring that remained daily was with his master and Deucalion. It was also the only instruction where Stiles felt he had made no progress. Sure, he could read the spells in the tomes, and he could remember them. If only he could find a way to perform them! Stiles still could not touch the pool of magic hidden deep inside himself.

He hated the time he spent away from his master. The Monarch required the Lord more and more. There was trouble brewing in the land, and the Monarch had sent Lord Derek off on two occasions, in an attempt to calm the problems. On those days, he felt listless, and Deucalion quickly went from trying to teach him, to taking walks along the Kelder River with him. Stiles felt so bereft without his master’s touch and pull. He was surprised to find that once they got away from the people in the town, the river soothed him.

Three days ago, Peter had sent Derek off again, and he had yet to return. This day would be longer than the rest; Stiles was sure. He had no other lessons this day.

Deucalion and he were just walking back to the port town after sitting along the river in a quiet spot. “Do you think it would be possible to see the town before returning to the keep?” Stiles asked the sorcerer.

“Unfortunately, I have things I must attend to. I believe it would be permissible for you, if you wish to see the town. You have been kept so busy since I arrived,” Deucalion answered.

“My gratitude,” Stiles responded.

When they came to the fork in the rutty, dirt road, they said their farewells and parted ways. Stiles strolled down the lane that traveled parallel to the river. The sun was high in the sky, and it was time for noon meal, but Stiles had no appetite with his master gone. He felt a need to see the town.

Merchants’ filled shops on both sides of the lane where he walked. Some shops were wood or stone, others were merely tents.

The noise and sights were almost overwhelming, as well as the push that Stiles had been sheltered from for so long. As he had in the past, Stiles tried to ignore the irritable push, just so he could experience the busy town.

There was a sailmaker on the corner closest to the piers, with small, bright sails waving from a pole outside that shop’s door. The clang of the hammer and anvil across from it, at the blacksmith’s stone building, hurt his ears, and the stench of the dyer at the leather shop burnt his nose, so he hurried down the road.

There were more tents than there were buildings once he got further from the main path. They were small, but colorful, and most had their wares laid out on beautiful carpets in the shade. Among other things, there were rolls of colorful cloth, rugs, jewelry, and birdcages, craftily made from twigs. A person could purchase wonderfully scented candles and herbs for a copper. Aroma from the roasted meats made his mouth water as he passed, and it seemed all the hawkers did their best to attract his attention.

The assault to his senses would have been so much nicer without the constant push that seemed to come from all sides. Walking on, he tried to ignore it, and the people began to thin out.

Spotting a larger tent than the rest, he made his way to it. The sides were pulled up to permit a breeze for the cages of animals. Stiles had never seen so many types of animals. Yes, there was a litter of small puppies and another of kittens, but there were also large, colorful birds. There were also two different types of cats the size of large dogs, a fox, a wolf, and two monkeys jumping around in their cage.

One of the large cats in particular held his attention. It was the smaller of the two large ones. Its tail was longer, and spots covered it. It was angry looking as it paced back and forth in the cage, yet its eyes, more beautiful than any eyes he had ever seen, seemed almost intelligent. It stopped pacing, and stood staring at him, almost pulling Stiles to him.

“I would not stand too close to that one if I were you. Unless, of course, you are planning on buying her.”

Stiles turned to see who was talking, and found the merchant looking at him. There was a push emanating from the man, and all Stiles wanted to do at that point was leave. “My pardons,” he muttered as he made his escape. When his master returned, he would beg to remove the cat from that horrible man.

Continuing down the road, Stiles found a copse of trees at the end of the lane. Slipping between them, he found a private place to relieve his bladder. He was almost done when his skin began to tingle as if covered with bugs from an incredibly strong push.

He was tucking himself away so he could go when he heard a footstep behind him. “Well, well, well. Look at what we have here. Our runaway slave has come back. Now I can fulfill my promise to him.”

Stiles was just turning, when a sharp blow to the back of his skull took him by surprise. White flashed across his vision before the pain came. Then the ground rose suddenly to smack him in the face before everything went black.


	8. The Burning Mark

[](http://s1097.photobucket.com/user/TJRGlitter/media/Legacy%20of%20the%20Dragons/dividerTheBurningMark.png.html)

It was up to Derek to put an end to the problems in the border towns. He’d had to leave Stiles twice in as many moons for the sake of the land’s safety. This time it was harder than the first two times. He had a very bad feeling every time he thought about separating from his mate for this trip. Even though Peter had a very good argument, it did not make him feel any better about leaving Stiles behind.

“Perhaps you are right,” Peter had said. “Stiles would be far safer with you on the road, or in a border town on the verge of full-scale war. True, he is only a mediocre rider, with no skills at all with a sword or knife, but I am sure he would be safest under your keen, protective eye. Surely, the danger you ride into will never touch the lad. Besides, the keep only has thick walls, guards, and a more experienced sorcerer to keep him safe.” Peter had been pacing as he spoke but stopped and turned to face Derek directly. “Damnation, Derek! Stiles is too important to the land for you to put him in harm’s way.”

Yes, it was a very good argument, and everything Peter had insinuated was true. It should have comforted Derek, but it did not. In the end, Peter had refused his plea outright and demanded that Stiles remain in the keep. 

His uneasy feelings followed him through the gate when he left, along with Deaton and a squad of the royal guards. It was still dark, but he could make out no stars in the sky. Of course, it would be cloudy at the start of this ride. It would probably begin raining soon. He sighed and hoped it would clear up so they would be able to quicken their pace. He emptied his mind of the things over which he had no power, thinking only of finding a solution to the boundary problem and returning as soon as possible. 

He was going to the border town of Blake, again, to prevent a war with Cryauna. William Barrow, the baron in charge in Blake, seemed determined to start one. The last time he was here, Derek had given the man reason to fear his return. That had been his last chance. He had suspected William could not be trusted because the man lacked a pull. That was another reason Derek wished Stiles could have come with him: to see how strong of a push the man had. Derek huffed out a breath in frustration. 

Derek never did like William, even when they were children running around with wooden swords. William was an only child, and he was used to getting everything he ever wanted, thanks to the money his family had. When his parents died, he got everything. Since that time, Derek thought the other man had grown into a pompous fool. Until recently, he had thought William was harmless. 

They had ridden hard throughout the day, and dusk had fallen before they approached the town. Riding through the unguarded gates, everything seemed too quiet. There should have been men out taking care of last minute things around the town. Derek feared they were too late, but he would find a way to right this very serious wrong. 

He separated from the others and went directly to William’s home. He knew Deaton would be going to the baron’s post in the center of town, taking some of the squad with him. The remainder of the men would be assembling at all the gates. They had made these plans before they had left the keep. 

William’s house was a large, sprawling, whitewashed building, set on the edge of Blake, near the border of Cryauna. As he rode up the straight path to his front door, a woman came out and began ringing a large bell with her spoon. The clanging noise called a dozen slaves, all men, armed with pitchforks, axes and sickles. The men lined up, side by side, in front of the house.   

Derek slowed his horse to a walk as he looked at the assembly. A large slave holding an axe took a step forward. “Our master said there might be a stranger here while he was away. He told us to send you away until his return.” 

Fear emanated from the slave. Derek knew what he looked like, dressed in leather, wearing his sword and sitting atop his warhorse. Part of his purpose for appearing in this manner was to intimidate everyone who stood in his way. 

“The monarch desires good relations with our neighbors. Good relations bring trade. Everyone gains through trade. War destroys trade, and carries death in its wake. I warned your master to stay away from the Cryauna, and to temper his lust to own those orchards. His gluttonous desire to take what is not his pushes the land toward war; he commits treason against Sertonan. The punishment for treason is loss of property and life. Drop your weapons if you do not wish to share his fate,” Derek demanded. 

The weapons clattered as they hit the ground behind the slave who had spoken, startling him. He turned his head to look behind him to see he was the only one still holding any type of weapon. His fell from his fingers only a heartbeat later. 

“Go inside and have everyone assemble in the main hall,” Derek told them. He then sighed with relief that this, at least, was going smoothly. He swung his leg over the back of his horse and dismounted, glad to be on the ground again. 

After stretching the kinks out of his back from the long ride, he tied his horse’s reins to a nearby tree and strode into the house. The main hall was the first room past the foyer. It was a large enough room to hold many more people than what stood grouped there now, but he was too preoccupied with thoughts of Stiles and the problems here to give it any attention. 

“You are all now the property of the Monarch. Line up, side by side. I wish to look at you,” Derek told them. His purpose was not to look so much as it was to feel if they had a pull. After making one pass before them, he turned, walking before them again, only this time, he pointed to three men and five women with a pull and had them go to the other side of the room. 

Facing the group of people without a pull, Derek looked them over again. “Do all of you normally work here in the house?” he asked. 

Some answered with a “Yes, my Lord,” while others nodded or shook their heads. 

“Those of you who belong in the house, prepare enough food for my men and I. Help out in the kitchen, even if it is not normally your place. Go.” 

Many of the assembled slaves quickly headed off to the kitchen. Derek looked at those left of the unchosen. Most of them had stood guard in front of the house. “Where do you normally work?” 

Again, the largest man stepped forward to speak. “We take care of the grounds, my Lord.” 

“I see. Take to your beds, and tend to your normal chores in the morning.” He watched them quickly file out the door and into the night. 

Lord Derek then stepped in front of the eight he had picked out and had step aside. “Where is the mistress of the house?” 

One tiny woman seemed to be made of steel by the way she looked directly into his face. “She had been sent to her father’s home, in case things did not go as Master expected. The young master is with her.” 

“Thank you,” Derek replied. After a short pause, he continued speaking. “The keep always has a need for good workers. I will only take you with me if it is your desire to work for the Monarch. You will not face punishment if you decide you do not wish to accompany me when I return. What say you?” 

Derek could see the relief on the faces of the remaining slaves. As one, they agreed. “Good. You may assist in the kitchen until it is time to leave.” 

The sorcerer was glad to have gotten the house slaves sorted out so quickly. His anxious thoughts flew to Stiles again, but they were interrupted when the thunder of footsteps on the stairs outside made its way into the hall. Deaton headed up the rather large group. 

“My lord. I found these men in the bastille. They refused to join the baron in his attack upon Cryauna, so he had them locked up.” 

One of the men in the front of the crowd dropped to his knees, shaking in terror. “Apologies, my Lord. I did not believe the baron spoke truth when he proclaimed you ordered the attack,” he said, eyes glued to the ground. 

Derek stepped close to the men, and felt a pull coming from the whole group. “I did not order Cryauna’s attack! I have much gratitude that you men refused the baron’s demands and saw through his lies and lust for power.” He touched the kneeling man, who then looked up at the Lord’s next words. “Stand. You have all done well.” The man’s pull was clear and crisp, an asset to the community, and would be very useful in the remaking of this town of Blake. “What is your name?” he asked the man as he rose to his feet. 

“Danny, my Lord. Danny Mahealani,” he answered, his head lowered in respect. It was obvious he had a good head on his shoulders and knew how to use it. Derek suspected he was a hard worker from his muscular build. His hair and eyes were dark, and he looked young - perhaps Stiles age. 

_Stiles_. He pushed that worry away to deal with business here. 

“I will need some good men to help rebuild this town and its reputation. The baron’s house has fallen from grace. Blake shall need a new baron and new officials to accomplish this. You men saw through the lies William told you, and you refused to follow his order. Will you step up, in the name of the Monarch, to preserve the peace and prosperity of the land? Will you work to bring peace along the Cryauna border?” 

“Yes, my Lord,” the men said as one, pride replacing the fearful looks on their faces. 

Derek touched each of the fifteen men, verifying each individual had a pull. He was relieved to find that they did, and Danny’s was the strongest. “Danny? Will you perform the duties of Baron and ensure the town of Blake obeys the laws of the land? Will you watch over these men, who in turn will watch over the town and its borders? Will you enforce the laws the Monarch has laid down and return the town of Blake to its former glory?” 

Eyebrows raised in surprise over dark brown eyes. “My Lord.” Danny fell to his knees again, looking into Derek’s face with awe. “You honor me, my Lord! Yes, yes, I shall do my best to return our town to the Monarch’s favor once again.” 

Derek pulled his sword from its scabbard and touched it to Danny’s shoulders. “So be it.” 

He then turned his focus to the remaining men. “Will you men give your oath that you will enforce the laws of the land, protect the town’s citizens, and keep its borders safe? Will you work to return the town of Blake to its former glory?” 

They went down on their knees to a man. Versions of ‘Yes, my Lord’, or ‘I shall, my Lord’ were heard from each of the men. 

“Now,” Lord Derek began, “I need to know all that you can tell me about William’s plans.” 

* * *

 They expected William and his men to return near morning, so Derek and most of his guard were able to get a little shut-eye while they waited. He left a few men on watch in case William came back early. Before sunrise, he gathered all of his men, as well as the newly appointed leaders of the town, and set off for the gate through which the troublemakers would be returning. 

The sorcerer explained what he was about to do, telling them not to be afraid. He then raised his arms and began chanting. Magic flowed bright and colorful, but only Derek’s eyes could see it. Had any of the men assembled contained any magic themselves, they, too, would have been able to see the raw power in the air.

 His magic spread much like a cloud, wrapping around each of the men until they all seemed to have disappeared. The sorcerer finished his chant and spoke. “Do not be alarmed. All is well. I have merely hidden you until William returns. We shall remain quiet until all have passed through the gate.” 

This was not the first time he had done this to his men, but he knew it would be frightening to the townspeople, even though they obeyed him without complaint. The Monarch’s squad spread out and into position to wait. 

Not much time had passed before they could hear William and his men return. There was very little shouting amongst the crowd, perhaps only a handful were loud. The rest were quiet, too quiet for coming back from a raid. 

William was the first one through the gate. The man was on horseback, most likely so the others had to look up to him. He kept the beast to a walk, and he looked very proud of himself. His curly, brownish-orange hair hung down to his shoulders on the thin frame of his body. Derek always thought the man’s light grey eyes looked haunted. Now he thought the man looked deranged. Directly behind him were William’s closest friends, who it turned out, were the only ones cheering their accomplishment. 

There were many Cryaunan’s tied up and pulled along on tethers. The Cryaunan’s were bruised and bloody, and Derek’s anger rose to a boil when he realized a few of the border neighbors were limping with blood running from between their legs. Derek could not remember ever being as angry as he was when he saw how William and his men treated their prisoners. He could not believe he had to deal with this type of stupidity on top of all the worry he carried for Stiles. 

Derek kept pace with William’s horse as the last of the group straggled through the gate. Grabbing Barrow by the wrist, Derek pulled him forcefully to the ground as he lifted the spell, letting the troublemakers know Derek had them surrounded. William landed hard and froze when he realized the tip of Derek’s sword was against his neck. Many of those returning were in the same position, thanks to his guard. 

“Kneel! All of you!” the sorcerer commanded, and then glanced around to see that all those that had been on the raid had dropped to their knees in fear. Then he turned his full attention on William. 

“I warned you to stand down from your desires. Beginning a war so that you can steal the orchards of our neighbors is nothing short of treason. You know the penalty for treason. Your property is forfeit to you, as is your life. You will never sit at the table of our Gods, Rel and Aze. Your heads shall sit upon a pike long after your body is food for the wild boars. Your worth will be in fattening those hogs to feed the people of Blake as well as its neighbors. What do you have to say for yourself?” 

William struggled to right himself and sat on his heels. The man should have been terrified, but he looked calm. “My lord, there must be some mistake. You told me to find a way to take those orchards for our Monarch.” 

Derek could not believe his ears. He grabbed the old baron by his throat and lifted him with one arm until his toes dangled off the ground. William clawed at the hand that was choking him; his eyes bulged in his head. “You have one chance to find your tongue before you lose it,” the sorcerer proclaimed before dropping the man in a heap. 

William coughed and sputtered, trying to catch his breath. Slowly William looked up into his eyes, and Derek saw real fear in them. “Forgive me, my lord. I meant no harm. I thought…” William then looked confused and went silent. 

“You meant no harm? Is that why you sent your heir and mistress away? Is that why your prisoners are bruised and bleeding? This is how you obey a direct order from your Monarch?” Derek’s voice had started out at almost a whisper, but by the time he finished, he was yelling. “Kneel!” he commanded. 

William shakily rose to his knees, keeping his eyes lowered. 

“William Barrow, according to the laws of the land, I find you guilty of treason. The punishment is death.” Derek raised his sword and swung the blade directly through the middle of the old baron’s neck. His head flew from his shoulders and came to rest face down in the dirt. 

He had long ago become numb to what he had to do for peace in the land. Later he would have William’s body dragged out to the woods for the boar and other wild animals that fed so many people in this area. William Barrow would at last be an asset to this community. 

He walked away from the body and approached the eldest of the Cryaunan prisoners. Like all the others, his crow black hair hung to the middle of his back. Derek knew that in the sun it was so dark that it was almost blue. None of them had facial hair, and they all had firm, muscular builds. He slid his sword into its scabbard and pulled a knife from his belt. The Cryaunan eyes went from fear to defiance. Derek felt relief to see that expression, knowing this experience had not broken him mentally, and he quickly cut the bindings around the man’s wrists. 

In his youth, Derek’s tutors had seen to it that he learned the languages of all the border countries. While most spoke the common tongue, Derek would speak Cryauna’s native tongue for this. 

The look of defiance left the man’s face as Derek dropped to his knees to be face to face with the kneeling man. “These people came into your lands without the ruler’s knowledge. I am here to fix what I can. Allow me to tend to the wounds of you and your fellows.” The sorcerer reached out, laid his hand to the side of the Cryaunan’s face, and began the chant of healing. Derek knew that the worst damage was not in the bruises on the man’s face, but from the dried blood between his legs. Stretching his power through his body would be taxing, but he did not want to add insult to injury by touching the man lower. He closed his eyes and followed the colorful stream of magic with his mind’s eye, repairing the damage done by William’s men. 

When he stopped chanting and pulled his power back, relief was evident in the other man’s face. “Much gratitude. My name is Rafael. I am chief to my people,” the man said in the common tongue. 

“I wish to make amends to your people. I need to know which of these men brought insult to you,” Derek asked, taking care of his wording so as not to anger the man. 

Rafael raised his hand and pointed to William’s second in command, who immediately looked affronted. Derek would question all those accused, but he wanted to check on the rest of the Cryaunan’s, first. “Much gratitude. Before amends are made, I would tend to your men,” the sorcerer stated. He assisted Rafael to his feet, and one by one, cut the bindings and healed all the Cryaunan prisoners. Of the few that had been ‘insulted’, he made sure to discover who had harmed them immediately after he healed them. 

Derek then gathered the six men who the Cryuanans had pointed out. “Citizens of Blake, our neighboring village pointed out the men who had insulted them; men who had violated them. You men stand accused, yet you all claim innocence. If you are blameless of this deed, who was it that harmed them?” Derek demanded.

 Most of the men looked around them in fear. Only William’s second in command spoke up. “They are nothing but pig-fornicating liars! How can you believe them over your own people?”

 The other five men began agreeing with their spokesman. Derek could not believe his ears. “Because I healed their damage! That is how I can believe them!” he roared.

 The sorcerer ordered the six offenders hands tied tightly behind their backs. He used his sorcery to overpower them to accomplish that deed with only Deaton’s aid to secure the men. He wanted his guards in position over the rest of William’s men. The sun had risen on another cloudy day by the time Deaton and he guided everyone to the blacksmith’s shop. 

Two slaves had already lit the fires for the day’s work, and they looked surprised when the doors opened to the large crowd waiting outside. “Leave us,” Derek commanded the slaves. They quickly slipped out and through the people.

 He had the six rapists stripped and on their knees in the fore of the large assembly. This type of problem would never happen again, of that he was positive. He stalked the blacksmith’s shop until he found the things he was looking for. He set a brand and a poker into the fire to heat and then grabbed a tool used to grip hot metal before he confronted the men.

 “You have taken something that was not yours to take. You have followed a man into treasonous acts, and then you lied about your deeds. You have been found guilty, and as such, your punishment shall fit your crime.”

 Without enough guards to keep watch over all the men from the raid, as well as help him, Derek was forced to use his power. Sending a stream of magic to the six in front to hold them still, the sorcerer sent an extra slipstream to the first man in line, tilting his head back until the man’s mouth was wide open. Derek then took the man’s tongue with his pinchers and pulled it out, sliding his knife through it and cutting it from his mouth. The man howled in pain. Blood gurgled in his throat as Derek picked up the red-hot poker, searing the bloody stump and stopping the blood flow. The sorcerer then released his hold on the man’s head, allowing him to clear his airways while he returned the poker to the fire.

 The lord would not force anyone to watch, although everyone knew what was happening. He heard gagging throughout the townspeople, but the Cryaunan’s watched the punishment with an almost casual disinterest. The panicked voices from the remaining five quickly stopped with a little twist of the sorcerer’s power.

 Derek used a bit of power on the first man again, leaning him back. He kicked the man’s knees wider and held him in that position as he pulled his sword from its scabbard. The man’s eyes grew larger in fear when Derek grabbed his manhood. The magically sharp blade slid through the man’s sac and cock easily. The sorcerer was surprised to find Deaton beside him, hot poker in hand, ready to stop the bleeding.

 There was more gagging from the town’s folk, but the stony expressions of the Cryaunan’s were calm as they silently looked on.

 The sorcerer sent a stream of power through the pain-filled man before him, fixing things only if it might cost the man his life. Knowing the man would live, he went on to the next man in line. With Deaton’s assistance, Derek was able to finish this ugly chore quickly. His final step was to pick up the brand, placing a large ‘X’ on each man’s forehead. The smell of burnt flesh turned his stomach, and it was all Derek could do to appear unaffected.

 Once that was completed, he turned to Rafael. “These men are now exiled from this land. I have branded them with an ‘X’, so all know that if they return here, it is a death sentence. I give these men to you. These men took from you and insulted you. They are yours to do with, as you will. You may keep them as slaves or torture them, as you wish. Feed them or slay them, it is your choice.”

 A small smile came to Rafael’s face for the first time. “It is my belief your rulers had nothing to do with the raid upon our village last night. We hold no grudge with you. Your punishment was swift to those who harmed us. Much gratitude,” Rafael replied with a respectful nod of his head.

 Derek clasped arms with Rafael; peace would continue at their boundary. He then tied a length of rope around each of the men he had tortured, releasing them from his spell, and handed them off to the man that they had insulted. The men were too weak and in too much pain from their recent experience to fight as they stumbled after their new masters. The Cryaunan’s left with their new slaves, returning to their homes across the border.

 Derek turned and looked at the townspeople that remained. He was exhausted and bone tired. Most of all, he was anxious to return to Stiles’ side. Sighing, he and Deaton led them out of the blacksmith’s shop.

 Derek and Deaton questioned the remaining townspeople. It had not taken long to realize William had ordered them to join in the attack, saying the Monarch’s nephew demanded it. Frustration and rage filled Derek to the point that he wished William were still alive, just so he could kill the man again, only this time, slowly.

 Once the questioning was complete, an emergency meeting was set up in the town hall. It was fully dark by the time Derek took the podium to address the town. He had the men Deaton had found in the bastille lined up behind him. “No attack was sanctioned by the Monarch, or by me. The attack was set only to gain William Barrow the orchards that he coveted so near to his own land.

 “The Monarch desires peace and prosperity for our lands. It is my belief that peace has been bought again this day between our lands and our neighbors. That peace cost several men their lives. Know that the Crown’s ear shall be open to trouble in this area. Be warned, you do not wish me to return if it is someone from this town who starts the discord.” Silence fell as Derek looked around the crowded room.

 “With the Monarch’s authority, I have selected Blake a new baron, as well as other positions of power. The men I am raising to those positions were brave enough to not blindly follow a leader. These men knew, deep in their souls, that raiding a neighboring village was wrong. These were men who said ‘NO!’”

 Derek raised his hand and turned toward Deaton, who held all the paperwork. When Deaton stepped up, the sorcerer took him aside. “You do the honors. Something is wrong. I need to return to the keep immediately.”

 Deaton nodded, although he looked confused by this change of plans. “What is it? Should I join you?” Deaton asked.

 “No, stay and honor these men. I have a bad feeling. It has been growing since I left. I need to return, now.”

 Deaton nodded again, worry evident upon his face, while Derek turned and clasped arms to each of the men who had gained higher positions this day. The lord then turned and left the proceedings, listening to Deaton’s voice as his councilor announced the new men and their positions of importance.

 Derek saddled his horse and left the town of Blake behind him, hoping he would never have to return for anything other than good tidings.

 Travel was slow as the lord rode through the night, and it ate at his nerves. He was bone tired from the little bit of sleep he had gotten the night before as well as the stress and magic use from the day. Being that fatigued, he knew his power would quickly deplete if he lit an orb over the road so the horse would not break a leg in a rut. Therefore, he kept the horse to a walk.

 He had not gotten nearly as far as he had hoped by the time the sun was rising. He pulled over to a nearby stream, and he rinsed his face in the cool water to bring back some wakefulness while his horse drank and began to graze. Derek had left Blake with nothing more than his sword and horse. There would be no meal to break his fast this day.

 The ride felt longer than normal. Whether that was from Derek’s fatigue or worry about Stiles, he was not sure. The only thing he was sure of was that his fear for Stiles was growing. He alternated between pushing the horse hard and walking him, so he would not kill the beast in his haste.

 The sun was high in the sky when the ink on the back of his arm felt as if it were on fire. He knew then that the worry he’d had for Stiles had not been needless. Stiles was in dire trouble!

 Feeding a trickle of power into his horse, he rammed his heels into its flank, and pushed it onward, hard. This had been a good horse, and he would probably lose her once he pulled back on his magic, but time was of the essence if he were to save Stiles, and possibly the land itself.

 The spell imbedded into the ink pulled him forward, always in the direction of Stiles. He was close enough to the keep to know the area, and he knew that was where he was headed. When the burn began pulling him north, his worry peaked. Stiles was traveling, and quickly enough for Derek to notice. The only person Derek could think of that would want to hurt Stiles north of the keep was Gerard Argent. Was it possible that his old master had returned to keep his sick promise of taking Stiles to his bed? He poured more power into his horse and angled his direction directly toward the Argent estate.

 Thoughts of _What if I am too late? What will happen to the land? What will happen to me, without him?_ ate at him. With those thoughts, he sent even more power to give his horse strength.

 When Derek realized the pull was directly before him again, he knew that Argent had taken Stiles. From the way Stiles had described the man’s push, he knew Gerard was more than untrustworthy; he was evil! Derek was sick at the thought of Stiles being in Argent’s hands again.

 Derek knew he had to remove himself from the problem and think about the solution. He needed a clear head to be ready to act. Clouding his mind with worry would not help Stiles, and he knew Stiles was in dire need of his help now. He could not pour more magic into the horse when he might need that power to save his mate.

 His marking urged him onward, and even as fast as his horse was running, Derek felt as if he were crawling. Never had he had a greater need for speed. On he rode, until finally, finally, the Argent estate was in sight. The burn of his mark was only a slight distraction. As long as the marking burned, there was still a chance to save Stiles - and the land.

 It seemed to take forever before Derek could see buildings on the Argent estate. The house appeared to be across the drive from a large barn, where he could just make out people moving around a wagon, and possibly a fire. His marking was taking him in that direction.

 Derek could pinpoint Gerard, only because of the fine clothes he could make out from that distance. He watched as the man pulled a red-hot brand out of the fire and leaned over the wagon with it. After the recent branding of the men in Blake, Derek’s fear spiked.

 He called upon his power, building a ball of sorcerer’s fire in his hand, and concentrated on the man with the fine clothes. When he released it, thunder sounded as the fireball flew straight and true. The tempest burned straight through the man’s chest, and his body flew a distance from the wagon because of the force of that blast.

 Derek reeled, vulnerable in his weakness. He said a quick prayer to the Gods, Aze and Rel, that he would have enough strength to save Stiles.

 He yanked on the reins and jumped off his steed when he was near to the wagon. The horse dropped to the ground as Derek removed the flow of magic from the beast. Slaves stood by, two women cried as they looked into the back of the wagon, and three men looked shaken as they stared at their master’s body. He could not be bothered with distractions now. The burn on his arm was receding. Stiles was dying.

 He looked over the side of the wagon to see his mate. Stiles was on his stomach with his head at an odd angle and a fresh brand on his face. What pull he had was very weak. Wasting no time, Derek pulled from his core of magic, the colors muted and pale now from so much use the last two days with no chance to rebuild it. He began the chant of healing and gently placed his hands on Stiles’ battered head, following the stream toward the wrongness. There was so much damage! A blow had crushed his skull and broken his neck. Blood poured into his brain, adding to the swelling and damage. His brain pushed out through the broken bones from that added pressure. Blood flow was restricted as the swelling increased, which explained the weak heartbeat and almost nonexistent breathing. The least of all Stiles’ problems was the ugly brand upon his beautiful face.

 On a good day, Derek might be able to fix all that damage, but this was not a good day. He had used most of his power already. Additionally, he was weak from exhaustion. With Stiles’ lifeline as weak as it was, Derek would only be able to keep his mate alive until he could get help. The sorcerer wrapped magic around the vessels that told his heart to beat and his lungs to take breath, and gently pushed the blood, brain matter and bone fragments away. Immediately, Stiles’ heart sounded stronger, and so was his pull. He changed his chant, tying off the magic protecting those vessels. Then Derek used a stream of magic to keep his airways open. He tied off that spell, pulled his power back and swooned. Had it not been for the very strong hands that held him up against the wagon, he would have fallen.

 “Get a bench over here, quick!” Derek heard through a fog as he struggled to remain conscious. Strong hands guided him to the bench that had been set down behind him and helped steady him until he was in control of himself again.

 Derek felt relief when he noticed Stiles’ strong pull, and he knew that his mate yet lived. The burn of his marking was a minor distraction he could tolerate, for it, too, told him his mate lived. He was so very tired. Unfortunately, he had much he had to do yet before he could sleep. He placed his hand over the one on his arm that was giving him support, and noticed the good steady pull. He looked up into the worried face of a tall, dark woman. “My gratitude. What is your name?”

 “My name is Danielle, my Lord. Master keeps me in charge of the kitchen around here, my Lord.”

 She appeared nervous, which only made sense after Derek’s display of power upon his arrival. He could spare no energy to calm her; he would have to work around her fear. “Is there someone I can trust to send a missive to the Sertonian Keep?” he asked.

 Danielle looked up at the other girl with her. “Ashley, you run and get Camden and bring him back here. Tell him to saddle up a horse, and that he has to travel to the keep. Now, hurry!”

 “My gratitude. Do you know where I can find some parchment here? I must inform the Monarch what has happened.”

 “I will see that you get what you need, my Lord.” She then turned her focused on a lad that looked as if he were going to be ill. “Boy! You get yourself into the kitchen and you tell Breanne to bring the writing box. Tell her to hurry now! Then I want you to make sure there is plenty of wood for the cook fires, you hear?”

 Feeling a little better, Derek heaved himself onto his feet. Danielle stayed right by his side, ready to catch him again if he began to fall. He found her presence reassuring. Derek reached over the wagon to touch Stiles, needing to feel that contact, strong and true, before he did anything else.

 He turned to look at Danielle while keeping his hands on Stiles. “If you are in charge of the kitchen, why were you out here?”

 “Oh, my Lord! Master came back and wanted all my wood for the cook fires. When I saw Stiles in the wagon, and Master coming from the barn with an iron in his hand, I tried to stop him. I told Master that Stiles belonged to the Monarch now, and that he was going to get himself in terrible trouble. He would not listen to old Danielle, though. He made the boys light a fire and heated up the iron. ‘That boy’s a runner! I made him a promise, and I keep my promises,’ Master said. He was planning to whip him and everything. Stiles was such a good boy, too. Master was gonna kill him just like he kilt Kara. ‘You gonna be able to fix him?”

 Derek listened to the slave talk, and although what she said was disturbing, he found her voice almost calming. “I certainly hope so,” he said quietly, eyes glued to his mate.

 He steeled himself and glanced over to his warhorse, lying dead on the ground. It had been a very good horse. It had carried him all that way, giving everything he had, including his life. Derek would miss the steed dearly.

 He had seen entirely too much death of late.

 Turning from his horse, he looked at the body lying on the ground. The two men, slaves, dropped to their knees, shaking in fear. He really did not have the strength to deal with anybody’s fear on top of everything else.

 The well-dressed body was Gerard Argent. The branding iron still gripped tightly in his hand, and the hot end was smoldering in the dry weeds under it. There was a hole larger than Derek’s fist burned through Gerard’s chest. There was no blood; the sorcerer’s fire was hot enough to cauterize as it blew through him. He’d had a quick death. Much quicker than what he deserved.

 Taking a step toward the kneeling men, he began giving orders. “Find something we can use to move Stiles. I do not care if you have to take a door off the house as long as you bring it and enough men to carry him inside without jostling him.”

 Once they left, he moved back to the wagon, to Stiles, and Danielle stayed by his side for each step he took. As they stood there, a young slave with an ornate box ran to them from the kitchen. “This is Breanne, my Lord. She’s got what you need for your messages.”

 Derek cleared straw from the end of the wagon as the girl handed Danielle a box. Danielle sat it on the cleared spot of the wagon bed and opened it. Inside was everything he needed to send his note. The box contained parchment, ink, quills, ribbons, candles and the Argent family crest to seal missives.

 By the time he had finished writing and was rolling up the parchment, a man in tan livery rode up and stopped to help the girl, Ashley, slide off the horse. Derek watched as the man took everything in before meeting his eyes. “My Lord. I have been informed you wish something delivered.”

 The sorcerer looked up into clear eyes and felt a fine pull coming from the man. He knew he could trust this man with his important message. “You are Camden? Danielle tells me I can have faith in you to deliver a missive to the Monarch quickly.”

 “Yes, my Lord! You can rely on me,” Camden replied. 

“This must go directly into the Monarch’s hands. Do you understand?”

 “Yes, my Lord! It will be delivered into the Monarch’s hands, no one else.”

 Derek turned back to the wagon. He carefully lit a candle, dripping purple wax to seal the parchment. _Purple! The color of royalty!_ Derek shook his head at the arrogance that had filled Gerard Argent. Then he pushed his signet ring into the wax before it cooled too much. The sorcerer almost dropped the missive as it danced in his fingers. He was so tired. Grasping it firmly, he handed it up to Camden.

 Camden placed the sealed parchment into one of his saddlebags, and then met the lord’s eyes again. “My Lord,” he said with respect, and jammed his heels into the beast’s flanks and spurred the horse on its way.

 He pulled his eyes away from the rider when he heard Danielle handing out orders again.

 “Strip the master’s bed and make sure there is fresh linen on it. Breanne, Ashley, hurry! This is no time to tarry!”

 The two girls ran off, and that was when he realized six large men were approaching. Two of those men carried a plank of wood the size of a man. He climbed up into the wagon so he could keep Stiles as still as possible when he was moved, and he knelt at Stiles’ head.

 Derek watched as the men spotted the body of their master and the gaping hole through his chest. He gave the men only a moment to stare. “That is the result of someone intentionally bringing harm to Stiles. I hope you do not wish to follow your master’s footsteps. I will need all of you to assist in placing Stiles on the board as smoothly as we can. His neck is broken, and care must be taken to prevent more damage,” the lord stated with as much strength in his voice as he could muster. Danielle stood to the side of the wagon, wringing her hands and watching.

 One by one, four of the men carefully climbed up into the wagon bed. They did their best not to jostle Stiles. Under Derek’s direction, they aligned the large board beside Stiles’ prone body. Derek made one plea as he leaned over his mate. “Do not leave me, Stiles.” Then he placed one hand on the back of Stiles’ neck, and pulled a tiny stream from the little magic he had left. With a chant, he wrapped the splintered bones and gave a nod to the men. As the four inside the wagon and the two on the ground began to turn the lad on his side, the sorcerer slipped his hand under his mate’s head and supported his head and neck with a cushion of magic.

 Once Stiles was lying safely on the board, two of the men carefully climbed off the wagon. The men on the ground worked their fingers under the plank by Stiles’ feet, while the two remaining on the wagon managed to lift the board up a few finger widths. Slowly and carefully, they moved the plank over the end of the wagon, the weight taken up by the men on the ground. Derek continued to chant and support Stiles’ neck, bolstering every shift of weight with a cushion of magic.

 With Danielle’s assistance, he was able to work his way off the wagon while at the same time protect Stiles’ head. With everyone taking their steps together, they moved toward the landing at the back of the house. Unfortunately, the stairs did not go nearly so easily. Derek was grateful he had Stiles supported when the man holding the back corner under Stiles’ head tripped on the way up. Danielle opened the double doors, and they carefully made their way through the house to the master bedroom. The plank was carefully set on the clean linen with Stiles’ head at the foot of the bed.

 Carefully, the men slid Stiles off the plank, while Derek and his magic continued to support his head and neck. The men took the board when they left. Only Danielle remained in the room with him.

 The sorcerer studied his stream of magic. The color was all but gone, and if he did not pull back soon, he would die. He slowly called back his failing power, checking as it withdrew that Stiles was breathing easily and his heart still beat strong.

 “Get me a chair, please. Do not let me fall on Stiles,” Derek requested.

 When he felt a chair behind his legs, he slowly sat, sensing Danielle by his side. Derek looked at Stiles, lying there so lifeless, so fragile, so broken. He was powerless to help more until either he regained his strength or Deucalion came. That was his last thought as black spots grew in front of his eyes, and he slumped over the arm of the chair, unconscious. 

* * *

 Derek awoke to pain in every part of his body. Sleeping in a chair for Rel knew how long, on top of pushing his magic further than he ever had in the past, did not make for a pleasant waking experience. The light coming in through the curtains only made the pounding pain in his head beat harder, also.

 He stretched and twisted his neck in circles, trying to relieve some of the kinks in his back. Then he reached his hand out to touch Stiles and felt comforted with the magnified sense of Stiles’ pull. It was then that he realized his sword was no longer at his side. That weapon could cause a major disaster in the wrong hands.

 His eyes searched the room, and he spied his weapon against the wall and out of harm’s way. Then he noticed Deucalion, asleep on the floor beside the bed, with a pillow tucked neatly under his head.

 Derek wondered how long he had slept. He arched his back and twisted, cracking his spine in the most delicious way, and then rubbed the sleep from his eyes one-handed. Removing his other hand from Stiles was not an option. When he looked back at Deucalion, the man was watching him.

 “You finally woke,” Deucalion said as he sat up. “You pushed yourself too far. You know that, do you not?”

 “I obviously had no choice,” the lord replied with a bit of steel.

 Deucalion glanced toward the bed and back to Derek. “Yes, I can see that,” he agreed. Then he rose and stepped over to the hearth and poured what was warming there into a mug, which he handed to Derek. “Here, drink. It will help.”

 The lord took one sip and made a face. “By the Gods, Deucalion, could you make this any more bitter?”

 Deucalion chuckled. “I began steeping those herbs when I arrived. They should be plenty potent by now.”

 “Yes, I am sure they are,” Derek said, taking another sip. The infusion was vile and very bitter, but he knew the rejuvenating qualities it would have for his magic, so he forced himself to drink. “How long ago did you arrive?”

 “We got in not too long before dawn. Your missive arrived last evening, late.”

 “We?” Derek queried.

 “Deaton arrived at the keep the same time your messenger did. Apparently, Deaton and half the guards left as soon as the ceremony ended. He saw how worried you were when you left. He is here on behalf of the crown, as well as a few fresh guards in case of trouble.” The older sorcerer set a small table beside Derek. “I will bring you something to eat, and then maybe you will be strong enough that we can help the lad,” Deucalion stated and stepped out of the room.

 Derek sipped the infusion while he touched his mate, agonizing over how much swelling there was around his cracked skull. He knew it was merely luck that he had gotten here when he did, but if they did not fix the damage soon, they would still lose Stiles.

 By the time Deucalion returned, Derek had finished his tea. Most of the pains that he had awakened with had become nothing more than mild aches. The burn of his marking was now his most intense discomfort, but that meant his mate needed help. Once Stiles was out of danger, that pain would be gone also.

 Deucalion set a platter overflowing with potatoes, carrots and thick, juicy slices of venison on the table. It was enough to feed four large men, but Deucalion knew Derek needed this. Food of the earth would replace lost power, and the type of depletion Derek had would build an unrealistic hunger.

 The aroma of food made Derek’s mouth water. He wasted no time cutting off a chunk of the venison and sticking it into his mouth. The first tasty bite only made him realize his hunger. He ate, and Deucalion refilled his mug. Derek sated himself on the replenishing food and tea until he could ingest no more. He was weak and could use another fortnight’s worth of sleep, but he could sleep when he was dead. They had to heal his mate.

 He nodded and stood. Deucalion moved the table against the wall and out of the way. Derek moved his chair out of the way, and then they both stood at the end of the bed.

 Derek placed one hand on the back of Stiles’ neck where the swelling was the worst, and his other hand threaded through his cropped hair, touching his scalp. Deucalion placed his fingers on the sides of Derek’s neck, and the two of them began the chant of healing in unison.

 With Deucalion’s power joining his, the colors of the magic he used were brighter than he had ever seen from either of them alone. Derek closed his eyes and directed a stream into the damage, following it with his mind’s eye. Deucalion joined with him. The bleeding had stopped, but Derek suspected the only reason was that there was so much pressure from swelling - there was no place for the blood to go. Careful to do no harm, Derek began pushing blood back to where it belonged, healed the bruising and reduced the swelling in the brain. Fluid from Stiles’ spine began to flow into the space that Derek cleared from other matter. He had to stanch that and force it back where it belonged. Then he began knitting bone against bone, working the splinters of spine and skull back where they belonged. Nerves and minor blood vessels needed reattaching. Derek broke into a sweat from the strain long before he finished.

 Once he had repaired the damage at the back of his mate’s head as well as it could be, he slowly released the magic that had protected the signals to his heart. When it continued to beat strongly, he released the spell keeping his air passage open. Once he was sure there would be no complications, he pulled the damage away from the brand on the side of his head. Removing the damage, instead of just healing it, would guarantee there would be no scar.

 Opening his eyes, he pulled the faded stream of power back and stopped the chant. Behind him, Deucalion also stopped chanting and swayed. Derek had used much of their power in saving Stiles. He turned and pulled the other sorcerer into a hug. “Much gratitude, Deuc.”

 “I know that if the need were strong, you would do the same for me,” Deucalion replied.

 Derek realized the room was much darker, and released his friend. The fire in the hearth had gone cold and the lighting through the curtains looked to be nearing twilight. He carefully sat on the bed beside his mate, and hoped he would awaken soon.

 “I shall send someone for firewood and some food for us,” Deucalion shared. When he opened the door, one of the palace guards was standing there.

 “Sir. Mister Deaton requested that I wait out here and see to your needs. My name is Noah,” the guard said simply.

 “Send a boy to carry wood for the hearth. Then send word to Danielle in the kitchen that we are in need of food and water.”

 “Sir,” the guard replied, and his footsteps receded down the hall.

 Derek listened with half an ear. His attention was on his mate. Stiles looked to be sleeping soundly, but he was so still. He was careful to disturb the lad as little as possible. He had knit the bones together, but it would be another fortnight of healing before everything was as good as new.

 Stiles’ pull was strong, the ink on his arm was as bright as the day he was marked, and his own marking no longer burned. All indications proved that neither Stiles nor the land were in any danger. However, as still as he was, Derek was afraid that he might have done something wrong. Yes, Deucalion had been there, watching over everything he had done. The older sorcerer would have let him know if he had made a mistake. Still, Derek worried. “Stiles, wake for me. Open your eyes and look at me.” He spoke quietly and received no response.

 Deucalion admitted two slaves with wood when a knock came to the door. They started a fire in the hearth and then quickly left. Noah returned soon after with a large tray full of food and placed it on the table Deucalion had cleared. He poured water into the kettle on the fire to make more of the bitter mixture. Deucalion then pushed the chair that Derek had slept in and a straight back chair up to the small table and set the tray of food on it.

 “Come, Derek. You must eat to replenish yourself. Stiles will awaken when he will. For now he is alive and safe.”

 After a last caress to his mate’s face, Derek pulled his hand from the lad and sat in the chair Deucalion had moved for him. The two men ate in silence, until all the food and the new pot of steeped herbs were gone. Although Derek had eaten silently, his mind had thought about Deucalion’s last words, _he is alive and save,_ and his thoughts whirled with questions.

 Before Deucalion had a chance to rise and clear the table off, Derek spoke what was on his mind. “I was told when I left that Stiles would be safe within the keep walls. What happened?”

 Deucalion started to open his mouth, and then he seemed to change his mind. His eyes seemed to be looking at something that was not in the room with them. When he looked at Derek again, his expression filled with confusion. “I gave him permission to wander through the town unattended. I caused this! Oh, Rel and Aze above, strike me down. I caused this. I knew it was my place to protect the lad, yet for some reason, I left him on his own. Somehow, I forgot that I had ever done that deed. My memory of giving Stiles that permission is as a dream, or as if I watched someone else doing it.” Deucalion dropped to his knees before Derek. “My life is yours, my Lord.” His forehead dropped to the ground at Derek’s feet.

 Anger, shock and disappointment filled the lord to boiling. However, something about Deucalion’s expression of confusion made him think he had seen that before, and recently. Then he remembered. It was after William had said the Monarch had ordered the attack on the Cryaunan’s, and he picked the man up by this throat and demanded truth. He begged forgiveness, looked confused and said no more. Had he slain a man who had been possessed? Had William Barrow been innocent? The thought almost made Derek sick. It was too late to right that wrong, but he did not have to repeat that same mistake.

 “Rise,” Derek demanded, and then he began pacing. After many long moments where the only sounds were his footsteps and the crackling of the fire in the hearth, the lord stopped and looked at Deucalion. The older sorcerer looked broken and ashamed. Fear for his life did not seem to concern him. It seemed more as if he had accepted that his life was forfeit because of this.

 “You said you forgot that you had given Stiles permission to wander unattended. What mean you by that?”

 “Just as I said, my Lord. When you asked what happened, I was going to tell you that I had no idea how Stiles could have gotten into trouble. It was as if the memory slipped into my head for the first time. I was shocked and confused by it, for I would never have allowed Stiles to go into town without me to keep him safe. Yet…”

 Deucalion shook his head, whether to deny his thoughts or clear his mind, Derek was not sure. “William seemed confused by his actions, also. Both incidents happened at the same time, allowing Argent to slip in between the cracks of our protection,” Derek said as the thoughts came to him.

 Deucalion snapped his head up with those words. “Chaos will awaken from their chance meeting; ever working to rend their growing powers apart. Is it possible? Has Chaos attacked again, as it had when you first lay eyes on Stiles?” the older sorcerer asked.

 “I know not,” Derek replied. He stepped over to the bed where his mate lay so still. He carefully sat down beside him and stroked his cheek with the back of a finger. “That at least makes more sense than either William’s or your actions.”

 “Does this mean you will not take my life this day?”

 “There has already been too much death. Stiles would not be among the living were it not for you,” Derek declared.

 “Much gratitude, my Lord.”

 Derek’s eyes flashed up to meet Deucalion’s, and then returned to Stiles’ face. “If Chaos has attacked, is that the reason Stiles will not wake?”

 “He was on death’s door. It may be a long journey for him to return to us. We must keep him safe until that time.” Deucalion fell to his knees before Derek. “I vow that death will take me before it ever gets a glimpse of Stiles again, my Lord.”

 Derek took his friend’s shoulder in hand, and they locked eyes. “I accept your vow. Now rise. It has been a long day. Get some rest.”

 Deucalion nodded. “As you command, my Lord,” he stated and rose. Then he picked up the platters that had accumulated from their meals and slipped out of the room.

 It was going to take a lot of sleep to regenerate his power completely. Derek grabbed one of the pillows and lay beside his prone mate, and soon fell asleep wrapped in his mate’s sweet pull.


	9. Unexpected Offer

[ ](http://s1097.photobucket.com/user/TJRGlitter/media/Legacy%20of%20the%20Dragons/dividerUnexpectedOffer.png.html)

He knew he was dreaming. That was all it could be, as daft as the sights were that he could see. First, he was flying. _FLYING!_ He had a vague memory from when he was a child of becoming dizzy and falling from a rooftop, or perhaps it was a tree. He always kept his feet on the ground after that. Yet, in this dream, he was looking down over the lands as he flew far, far above them.

This was not a dream he was able to control. He realized that it seemed to be taking him toward the snow-capped mountains ahead, even though he felt no chill in the air. That was when he spotted the dragon flying into a large opening; it had to be an entranceway to a cave. It was drawing him, pulling him, in a way he had felt once before, but he could not remember when.

Suddenly, he was there, behind the blue-scaled dragon. He watched as it folded its gleaming wings tightly to its back, and followed it deeper into the cave. It seemed that something as large as this beast should have lumbered as it walked. However, it moved as gracefully as a cat, lithe and agile, while each step it took seemed filled with purpose. It was very beautiful to behold.

It should have been dark in this cave. His surroundings were smooth, empty, and void of wall sconces and hearth fires. Nevertheless, he could see as clear as day. He followed the dragon deep into the bowels of the mountain. The glass like surface of the cave eventually gave way to stone floors and walls. There were doors leading into rooms that held furnishings and bright color. _Odd._

The dragon he followed shimmered and changed. A man with brown hair walked naked before him, and stepped into one of the rooms, pulling a long, green robe over his head before continuing down the corridor. He stepped into a large anteroom, larger than anything he had ever seen before. There sat a woman, younger than the man, with long dark hair.

 “Have you found him?”

 “It is more that he has found me. We are too late. He is dying, and he has found his way here.”

 “Nay, say there is no truth to that!”

 “I feel him, even now. He is here.” The man seemed shaken; a sob left his lips as his eyes searched the room. Seeming to lock his pale eyes on him, the man spoke his words directly to him. “I am sorry, son. We tried to keep you safe.”

 Those words shocked him. Suddenly he found himself outside, once again flying over the land. He saw the steam rise off a mountain lake surrounded by greenery in the midst of all the snowcapped mountains. He watched forests, streams and fields pass under him. He saw a ring of standing stones, with a strange, large animal feeding near it. The animal had the feathered head of a bird of prey, wings, and the body of a lion!

 Then it was behind him as he continued his uncontrolled flight. There were more villages, towns and people. Trees that had been bare and snow-covered closer to the mountains, now were green and fruit filled below him. People worked fields and orchards, traveled by horse and carriage, sat on swings and swam in ponds.

 He continued toward the sun. The town below him seemed familiar, and then he spotted an estate he knew he had seen before. A spike of unease filled him; he knew not why. He found himself in a room, hovering over a bed. Two men were lying on that bed, one large with dark hair, and the other smaller, thinner, his hair short. He found himself pulled to the smaller man, and sank into him, filling his skin, becoming him.

 He slept. His earlier dreams lost, the way dreams are, and replaced with new ones, some erotic, some not so much. He saw visions of a man he adored. He felt a pull, sweet and strong. He was in love, loved in return, safe and secure in the life he desired most. 

* * *

 Stiles woke with a start. His bladder was so full it hurt. When he struggled to reach over the bed to find his chamber pot, other discomforts came to life. His head ached horribly, he was stiff all over, and he felt weak as a newborn baby. Cracking his eyes open, confusion filled him because of the surroundings he could see. It was not his room, nor did it resemble any of the rooms at the keep. The walls of this room were white, not tapestry covered stone. He could see a tall bureau of rich dark wood, as well as a mirror on the wall.

When he realized he knew this room, he struggled to push himself up with plans of trying to escape. This was Master Gerard’s bedroom.  

“Stiles.”

It was his master’s voice. Not Master Gerard, but his true master. It was then that Stiles perceived the pull and turned his head. There, on the bed beside him, was his master. He tried to calm himself from the near panic that had consumed him. His heart still raced and tried to beat its way out of his chest and through his skull. The relief he felt at seeing his master was a balm to all his aches - even though his heart continued to race.

His master stroked the back of his hand up the side of his face; his touch intensified the pull so much. Stiles calmed and found himself caught in the web of his master’s eyes – beautiful eyes of green and blue, brown and gold. The dark circles under them made his master look as if he’d had no sleep in a week, but their colorful depths held Stiles tightly. He could see love, fear, relief and worry, all swirling in the intensity of his master’s expression.

“Where were you going?” Master asked.

The pain from his full bladder came to the fore of his mind again. “I need to relieve myself, Master.”

His master smiled and stroked the side of his face again. Then he rolled off the opposite side of the bed. Stiles had been up on his elbows, and almost lost his balance due to the movement of the mattress under him. Again, he was surprised and confused by how weak he was.

His master came to his side of the bed, helping him to find his balance and assisting him in swinging his feet to the floor so he could sit up. Spots swam before his eyes, growing quickly. Master leaned him over so his head touched his knees, and soon the spots disappeared. Slowly, Master helped him to sit up again.

Master had reached under the bed and found the chamber pot. He held it until Stiles met his eyes. “I do not know what you remember, but you will be very weak for a while. You will need time to recover. We shall remain here until you are strong enough to travel.

“We are not at the keep, and as much as I love it when you call me that, save that term for my chambers. While we are here, call me either by name or by title. Everyone needs to know that you are a free man. Now, let us see if we can get you to your feet so you can relieve yourself.”

That was the gentlest reprimand Stiles remembered ever receiving. He knew better than to use the term ‘Master’ outside his master’s quarters. With Derek’s help, he was able to stand, although he felt as if he had drunk a keg of wine. Stiles found it difficult to find his balance, and he held onto his master’s arm to stay upright. He leaned against the solid man, and was able to work his erection out of his leggings. He took the chamber pot and looked down to aim, and then Stiles waited… And waited. How could he need to make water so badly and not be able to? After many, long, embarrassing moments, the flow started and he sighed in relief.

Before his bladder had emptied, the pot almost slipped through his grip. Derek seemed to understand from the way Stiles fumbled with it and quickly grabbed the bottom of it, preventing the mess Stiles would have made.

He looked up into his master’s eyes to find them gazing back into his. Stiles thought he should have felt self-conscious, urinating before his master the way he was. Rel above, he actually needed Derek’s help. Instead, he felt cared for, cherished and respected. There was no room for embarrassment.

Once Stiles had finished, Derek held the offending chamber pot out away from them, and helped Stiles to sit on the side of the bed again.

“Do you think you can sit there while I set this outside the door? Then I shall help you into a night shirt.”

His pants were twisted and uncomfortable, but they would be coming off if he could put on a nightshirt. Rel knew he could easily fall back to sleep! He then noticed how filthy his clothes were, and he wondered what had happened and why they were here in this place; this place he hated so much. He placed his arms behind him to brace himself so he could keep his balance and decided he could hold that position for a bit. “Yes, I will be fine. My gratitude.”

Derek smiled and slowly took his hand away, obviously checking for himself to see if Stiles was safe from falling on his face. He quickly strode to the door and handed the chamber pot to a guard on the other side. _A guard?_

His master quickly returned after taking a nightshirt from the stack of linen atop the bureau. Derek set it on the bed and began helping Stiles out of his shirt.

“Are we being held prisoner here?” Stiles asked.

“No. The guard outside the door is from the keep. He is there for our protection and to assist in anything I may need,” Derek answered. He slid the nightshirt over Stiles’ head, and Stiles raised one hand at a time to put them through the sleeve-holes. That little bit of work wore him out. “Come. Hold on to me, and we will stand you up one more time to pull your dirty clothes off.”

There was no way Stiles could have stayed on his feet had it not for Derek’s support. Before he had a chance to sit back down on the bed to slide his pants off completely, Derek pulled the top cover off. Then at last, Stiles was back on the bed. “Do not lay back, yet,” Derek requested. Once again, Stiles slid his arms behind him to stay upright, when all he wanted to do was sleep.

Derek pulled the entangled clothes from Stiles’ ankles, tossing them in the same direction as the covers. Then Derek helped him move toward the headboard, and slid in behind him. Stiles lay back against Derek, encased in his pull, and promptly fell asleep.

He woke when there was a tap at the door, and it opened to Danielle directing her helpers to set a table of food by the bed. “Stiles, it is so good to see your eyes open again. I am so glad you’re going to be all right.”

Stiles tried to smile, but he did not think it came off that way. He was so sleepy and so comfortable wrapped in his mas-, Derek’s pull. He was having a hard time keeping things straight, but he wanted to ask something…

“Hey, wake up. You need to eat something,” Derek murmured into his ear. The tingling response his body had to those words made his eyes snap open, just in time to see Danielle following her helpers out. Before the door shut, Deucalion stepped into the room.

“You have no idea how relieved I am to see you back in the land of the living,” Deucalion stated with his strange accent.

That pulled Stiles away from his dreamlike state. “Why? What has happened?”

“Gerard almost slew you in his haste to have you back in his possession. You never need worry about that again. He is nothing more than carrion for the crows, now,” Derek replied quietly at his ear.

Stiles attempted to remember, but it only made his head hurt worse. “Is that why we are here?”

Deucalion approached the bed with two mugs in his hands. He handed one to Derek, and set the other on the table beside the bed.

“There is no need for you to serve me, Deucalion,” Derek stated.

“The need is mine, my Lord.”

Stiles did not understand the exchange between the two sorcerers, but he was too tired to try to figure it out. He closed his eyes in the comfort of Derek’s pull, and sought sleep.

“Do not return to sleep yet. You must eat something, and you must drink this.”

Stiles could feel the words rumble in Derek’s chest as easily as he could hear them. He opened his eyes to see the mug before his face.

“It is hot, so sip carefully,” Derek instructed as he brought the drink to his lips.

Stiles took one sip and almost spit it out. “That is horrible!”

Derek brought the cup to his own lips and sipped. “This is delicious compared to the concoction I had waiting for me when I awoke. That mugful had been steeping for most of the day. Now drink this, it will help you. Trust me, Stiles.”

Stiles took another sip, and then another. He could not help but make a face from its bitter taste after each sip. After a fourth sip, Derek pulled the mug away and held a small slice of very rare and juicy meat to his lips. He had no hunger for anything except sleep, but he knew his master would insist he eat. He opened his mouth to the flavorful bite, and found his appetite.

He ate each bite that Derek held up for him. Deucalion watched them as he ate his own meal, never commenting or giving anything away with his expressions. Stiles could not imagine what was going through the older sorcerer’s mind.

The meal was as enjoyable as it could possibly be, the way he was leaned back against his master’s chest and wrapped in his pull. Enjoyable, except when Derek brought that bitter mug of tea to his lips. The mountain of food on the table dwindled as the three of them ate. Stiles saw that both of the sorcerer’s drank a mug of the vile infusion. He did not understand how they did it without grimacing.

Once his drink was gone, and he had become too groggy to eat, Derek slid out from behind him and laid him on his side, a soft, down pillow under his head. The last thing he remembered was the smell of a clean blanket as Derek pulled it up over him. 

* * *

 When Stiles awoke next, it was again from the clatter of Danielle’s helpers setting up the table for first meal. He opened his eyes and watched the organized confusion. He had caught Danielle’s eyes on him more than once. Each time, they seemed filled with concern.

After they had filed out, Derek sat down beside him. He had not realized Derek had even been the room. “You are awake. Good. How do you feel?”

Stiles stretched. “I think I feel a little better. My head pounds with each beat of my heart, and I still feel weak, but better all the same.”

“Foods of the earth and plenty of sleep should fix all that ails you. Let us see how you do on your feet today.”

With that, Derek stood, flipped the covers off Stiles and helped him stand. He was much more stable this morning than he had been last evening. Derek handed him the chamber pot and stood close enough to prevent an accident like the one Stiles almost caused the day before. The caution was unneeded this day though. Stiles was able to keep his balance using nothing more than the bed behind his legs. He pulled the pot out from under his nightshirt when he was finished, and Derek set it outside the door. When he returned, Deucalion was with him.

“You are looking much better this morning, Stiles.”

“I am feeling a bit better,” Stiles agreed.

“That I am happy to hear.”

Stiles watched as Deucalion went to the hearth and filled three mugs from the pot heating there. “Can you not find something less vile to drink with which we can break our fast? Perhaps some ale or even buttermilk?” Stiles asked.

Deucalion chuckled. “Yes, I could find many things that would taste better than these herbs, but none with the same restorative value. The healing weakened you; it took from your essence, and you were already knocking at death’s door.”

“Is that why my heart beats in my head?”

Derek was sitting on the bed against the headboard by this time, and helped Stiles to settle between his legs. When Stiles was comfortable and leaning back into his chest, Derek spoke.

“What is the last thing you remember before waking here?”

Stiles struggled to remember, but it only made his head hurt more. Then he latched onto one memory. “I was strolling through the town below the keep, looking in the shops. There was a man who had a large cat. It was wild and beautiful, and I could tell it hated the small cage it was in. Derek, we need to save that regal animal. The peddler had an awful push,” Stiles exclaimed.

“We can do that. What do you remember after the cat?”

“I left that shop, and...” Stiles thought back to the vague memories he held. Normally he could remember every little nuance easily. “There was a copse of trees, and I needed to relieve myself. Master Gerard was there! He spoke, and I was hit over the head.” Stiles’ hand went to the back of his head. While his touch did not hurt, it brought the memory of pain.

“I have thanked the good spirits that I was able to find you before Death opened its door for you,” Derek averred.

“How long have we been here? How long have I been asleep?” There was a crack in his voice from fear. He hoped his master would think it was from sleep.

“You were out when I found you. I arrived three days ago, not long after Gerard brought you here,” his master replied quietly.

Stiles was quiet, considering all that he had just learned and remembered. Derek put the mug to Stiles’ lips, and he took a few small sips before Derek set it on the table.

“This is the drink you told me about that helps to replenish magic. Does it also help heal?” Stiles asked.

“Although you have been unable to touch your magic, you still have it, and it needs to be replenished. Your depleted magic is part of the reason you are so weak. I am sure your magic is all that kept you alive as long as you were. Without it, there is no way you would have still drawn breath by the time I found you,” Derek explained.

The thought struck Stiles that Derek had depleted his own magic while saving him. On reflection, he recalled a few things, and they worried him. He squirmed around so he could look at Derek as he spoke. “You mentioned the herb drink you had when you awoke. When you began my training, you said it was dangerous for a sorcerer to use all of their power. You explained that it was safer for a sorcerer to use their power when another sorcerer was present; one they could receive power from; one they trusted. You said just now that you found me.”

Stiles watched as Derek began to show some emotion, and then seemed to block it all off, showing nothing.

“Yes,” Derek said quietly, raising an eyebrow.

“You were alone and almost depleted yourself, did you not?” Stiles asked the question, but he already knew the answer. Derek, his Lord, his Master, his mate, almost died because of him.

“Yes.”

“Why? How could you risk yourself over someone like me? I cannot be of use to the land if I cannot touch my magic. I am unimportant! However, the land and its people need you! Why would you do that?”

Emotions flooded Derek’s face, and anger seemed to have taken hold the strongest. His eyebrows clamped down in a storm of fury. “Because you _ARE_ important! You are important to me. You are my mate, and I have no desire to live if I lose you!”

Derek had growled his words, and Stiles realized how bad of a transgression he had made by demanding those answers. He could easily believe that no one had ever talked to his Master in that manner. Yet, with worry filling him over Derek’s actions, Stiles, the person who had said he was unimportant, had just made demands on the lord. Although the words of Derek’s response… Those words had meant everything to Stiles. He stared open-mouthed at his mate.

Stiles watched the anger bleed away, perhaps it was only frustration, and Derek stroked the back of his fingers along the side of his face. “All I was able to do was keep you alive until Deucalion arrived. It was our joined effort that healed you.”

Stiles grabbed Derek’s hand and held it against his face. “You saved my life. Again. I hope I am worthy of that trouble.”

Derek’s mood seemed to change. “Enough of this. I did survive, and so did you. I believe we have made Deucalion uncomfortable long enough. Let us break our fast and replenish our magic and strength.”

Stiles turned his head to look at the older sorcerer. He had forgotten they were not alone. “My apologies, Deucalion.” He then turned around and leaned back against Derek’s chest, already exhausted, but more content than ever with the knowledge that Derek felt the same as he did.

They finished breaking their fast, and the conversations stayed away from matters of importance. Stiles was silent and more interested in listening than talking. He took the bites Derek fed him, and drank the bitter herbs with no complaints, wrapped in his master’s arms and pull.

Later in the day, servants brought a tub in, and Lord Derek himself helped Stiles by washing his head and back. Stiles really did not know what to think about that. Derek remained in the room as he finished bathing himself, explaining that he feared Stiles might fall asleep in the water and drown. The lord was courteous though, he kept his back turned the whole time Stiles bathed. With a clean nightshirt and fresh sheets on the bed, he felt like a new man. The gods and good spirits combined all knew he certainly smelled like one!

Days passed, and Stiles spent less time asleep and more time walking through the house as his strength grew. His headaches eased and slowly disappeared. He talked with Danielle, Ashley and Breanne daily, although he did not remember Ashley or Breanne very well from the short time he had been a slave here. Stiles was never left alone, and rarely did Derek leave his side. He noticed the feel of the house changing subtly, and that he no longer felt any push from the house-slaves. He learned from Danielle that Mister Deaton had sold many of the slaves on the estates. When he asked Derek about it, he said he’d had Deaton send all those without a pull to the slave market. He later learned from Ashley that Deaton had sent all the dogs north and sold them to hunters in the wilderness areas. The relief Stiles felt was immense knowing the dogs were gone.

The Monarch sent several people to run the estate. Stiles knew nothing about them, but Deaton took care of setting them up in their new positions. It was a fortnight after he had awakened that Derek and Deucalion finally felt he was strong enough to leave the mansion and return to the keep. The guards, Deaton, Deucalion and Derek all waited for him to mount as he pulled himself up on a beautiful, black horse at first light one morning. They headed south toward the keep at an easy, steady pace.

It was a clear, mild morning, dew sparkled on the grass from the rising sun, and birds sang in the sky. He was riding safely between the two sorcerers. Deaton was at point and the guards followed. While the scenery was easy to watch, he soon grew bored with it. Yes, there were farms and fields, but so much of it was barren land.

Going through the forest was interesting, though. The trees kept the riders cool and shaded, and sometimes he would get a glimpse of the animals. At times, they were up in the trees, hiding behind the hanging moss and leaves. Other times he would spot them as they turned and ran under the brush. He thought of the caged, wildcat that had held his attention in the town, and wondered if anything like that lived in these trees.

Stiles’ training in the stables had taught him how to ride, but he had never spent a lot of time atop a horse. His legs and back had begun to burn by the time they stopped for a rest. It was mid-morning when they walked their horses to a stream for a drink. Stiles felt as if the horse were still between his legs while he walked, although the chance to stretch the kinks out of his back was pure bliss.

He found himself standing beside Derek as the horses drank. The man stood straight and tall, looking every bit as powerful as he was, yet his pull wrapped Stiles in comfort and arousal. “I know the ride is hard on you. How are you holding up?” Derek asked.

He felt as if the good spirits had blessed him as he looked into the eyes of the man who had saved his life. His desire to drop to his knees before the man was great, but he knew it would be unwanted. “I am well, my Lord. This break from the horse’s back is much appreciated.”

“We are more than halfway there. With luck, we will make the keep around noon meal. Let us hope our travels continue without problems since we are making such good time.”

Shortly after that, they remounted and continued toward the keep. They kept to an easy gait, and before long, they could see the spires of the citadel in the distance. This was the first time Stiles saw it from a distance; he had been too broken to notice it on his first arrival. The sight awed him. It was made of the same yellow stone as the barricade that surrounded it, and the keep seemed to sprawl in every direction. There were large, square spires in the front and rear that loomed over the main portion of the building, and Stiles knew steps led to a set of large double-doors at the base of those towers. There were wings coming off the two corners of the main section of the palace that ended in round spires, only slightly shorter than the square ones. He knew there were two more spires on the far side of the immense castle, also. The tops of all the towers were cone shaped, and shingled with a darker stone.

The barricade towers were only slightly taller than the wall itself, and they framed each side of the gates. Those towers protected the gate guards in bad weather, as well as making a safe place to use bow and arrow in times of siege. One man stepped away from his post when they approached, recognized the sorcerer and waved them on.

Although it was not a beautiful castle, to Stiles it was home in every sense of the word, and he was more than glad when they rode through the gates. 

* * *

 Stiles had just awakened from a nap after his long ride home when there was a knock on his door, and Scott stuck his head into the room.

“I have missed you, Stiles. Welcome home!”

“Much gratitude, Scott. I have missed this place more than I ever thought I could.”

“My apologies, but Lord Peter requires your attendance.”

Stiles remembered the first time the Monarch had summoned him, and the dread he had felt. Now he considered the man a friend. “Allow me to make myself presentable, and I will attend him.”

“My gratitude,” Scott said, nodded and backed out of the room.

Alone once more, Stiles splashed water on his face and washed his hands before changing into a clean jacket and leggings. He combed his wet fingers through his hair in an attempt to control it. Now that it was getting longer, it stuck out in all directions. Stiles could not wait for it to grow long enough to tie back. Finally, he slipped his feet into his house slippers, and went to the Monarch’s chambers.

One of Peter’s twin guards, Stiles thought it might have been Aiden, opened the door for him to enter. Peter’s office was cozy, only large enough for small meetings. The fireplace on the other side of the room was lit, and crackling quietly in the background. A bookshelf behind Peter’s massive desk shelved real books, not just scrolls. Stiles had only seen a book once before coming to the keep.

He stepped into the Monarch’s chambers much calmer than the first time. He had felt Derek’s pull before entering the room, but he was surprised to see Deaton there also. Stiles held Derek’s eyes a moment, sensing the gladness that filled his master before turning to Peter.

“Ahh, the fortuitous young phenomenon has arrived. I am so glad you survived your endeavors and could attend us. Welcome and be seated, Stiles. We have some business to attend to, and it concerns you,” Peter stated.

Stiles missed Peter’s manner of talking. The Monarch was smart, and Stiles enjoyed verbally sparring with the man. Today, he thought it might be better to keep his mouth shut until he knew why exactly Peter had summoned him.

There were only two chairs sitting before the Monarch’s desk. Derek stood and had him take his seat. As he took the offered chair, Stiles watched Derek step over to the doorframe and lean against it with one shoulder. This chafed Stiles’ nerves and set him to worrying. _How could any business involve him?_

With his elbows on his desk, Peter cleared his throat, indicating to Stiles that he should focus on the Monarch, not Derek. Stiles’ face heated with embarrassment for his rudeness as he faced the man.

“Your recent incident has been accumulating problems for me. First and foremost, I find it imperative that you receive training so that you can protect yourself in the future. You will begin that training immediately, and remain armed whenever you are outside the castle walls. Tomorrow when Derek finishes with your training, you will go to the armory and see Chris. He shall test you to see which weapons you would most easily master and start there. Your lessons will be hand-to-hand on foot and on horseback. The remainder of your tutoring shall be set aside, until such a time as that need changes.”   

Stiles ran his hands over his scalp. He felt overwhelmed with the idea of arms training. The thought of sliding a blade into someone was a fearful and sickening thought. Then he thought of his old master, Gerard. _Yes,_ he thought, _a sword to protect myself, and the land, would be a good thing._ “Yes, my Lord,” Stiles agreed quietly.

“As to Gerard’s property, it was confiscated for unremitted taxes as well as the branding and attempt to slay a free man. Gerard’s niece, Victoria has petitioned the crown for ownership of the land, claiming the man he almost slew was a runaway slave.”

_Branding?_ Stiles turned toward Derek. The raven-haired man’s eyes were squeezed shut a moment before they landed on him. He _had_ been branded! He wondered if Master Gerard had also whipped him and… Stiles pulled the sleeve of his jacket away from his marking. He had seen it since the ‘incident’ as Peter called it, but he had paid it no attention. The colors still appeared as bright as the day he had gotten it. Derek had told him it would turn black once he lost his ‘purity’, so he must still be untouched. Thank the good spirits for that!

“You did not know the extent of your injuries? My apologies for informing you this way. Besides hitting you on the back of your head, Gerard took a brand to your face. It is a good thing that you passed out before that. It is one less experience you have to worry about having nightmares over.” Peter said.

Stiles was still inspecting the mark on his arm when Derek spoke. “He did not touch you that way. You are still pure, and the land is still safe.”

“Did he whip me as he promised he would?” Stiles asked as he pushed his sleeve back down.

“No. There was a whip on the ground that was ready for use, but I believe you would not have survived long enough for the first stroke,” Derek confessed.

Shaken, Stiles looked wide-eyed at his savior. When he had said ‘at death’s door’, he had not been figurative. Each breath he took now, each day he lived, he owed to this man. There were things he wished to say, but this was not the time. “Much gratitude, my Lord. You honor me.”

Derek merely nodded, but the intensity of his gaze assured Stiles that he understood.

Peter again cleared his throat. This time when Stiles turned toward him, he was unashamed of his lapse. “The Argent holdings are vast, both in property and profits. For the insult and harm he had bestowed upon you, we wish to title this land to you, Stiles.

“Do you understand the implications of this title, Stiles? Know that we wish you to remain here in the keep to continue your training. A trusted overseer is already in place. Are you willing to accept this burden?” Peter asked and then steepled his fingers in front of his face.

From what Stiles could see of Peter’s face, he suspected the man was grinning.

He locked eyes with the Monarch, his mind repeating every word that Peter had said. Stiles was convinced that he had heard Peter wrong. He looked beside him to Deaton, who sat calmly in the other chair. The man’s dark eyes had a knowing twinkle to them.

Deaton had covered so many things with his tutoring; the rights of landowners were among them. He knew those laws. He could recite them here and now. Accepting the title of that land would make him a landowner. A _major_ landowner! Major landowners had higher castes and rights. He would have a high enough position to marry anyone short of the Monarch himself!

Stiles turned and looked at Derek, standing at the door behind him. His raised eyebrow and sly smile made him look like the cat that got the cream. It was overwhelming to believe that he, raised as a slave and freed for only a short time, could have attained such lofty standings. Stiles was struck dumb. He turned back to the Monarch, and all he could do was nod.

As soon as he had confirmed, Deaton began reading from a small stack of vellum sitting on the desk. He began with an account of all that had made up the Argent estate. It included all the buildings, slaves, livestock, orchards and fields. Then he went on to describe the water rights to the land, as well as the taxes. Deaton also explained the payment to the overseer that had been set in place - how a percentage of the profits would be his pay. Peter sat quietly and observed while Deaton read.

When he was finished, he tidied up the parchment sheets. “Do you understand everything I have just read?” Deaton asked.

“Yes, sir, I do,” Stiles replied.

Deaton then set the sheets of vellum in front of Stiles on the desk and pushed a quill into his hand. “We need you to sign here, and here, and here,” Deaton stated as he pointed out lines on different sheets before him.

He adjusted the quill in his numb fingers, and signed in the indicated spots, careful not to make a mess with the ink. When he was done, Deaton poured sand on the signatures to absorb the excess ink. He cleaned the quill, replaced the cap on the ink, and stood. “Congratulation, Stiles. May this be the beginning of good things to come your way.”

“Much gratitude, Mister Deaton,” Stiles replied.

“My Lords, if you will excuse me, I have some business to wrap up.” Deaton picked up a pile of papers that had been on the desk in front of him as well as the ones Stiles had signed, and stepped out of the room.

Stiles felt as if his head were spinning because of all of the changes in his life. Derek took the chair that Deaton had vacated, and he reached over and took Stiles’ hand. The increased pull helped to put him back on familiar ground.

“A warning to you that Victoria is residing in the east wing. I will meet with her once again in the morning and send her on her way. Derek tells me the woman has no pull, so she might not be pleasant for you to be near.”

Stiles nodded. He had no desire to be near anyone with a push!

“Now, perhaps a glass of wine to celebrate?” Peter suggested.

“By all means! Some of your aged wine, perhaps?” Derek asked.

Stiles smiled. A glass of wine would be very good right now.

Peter himself rose to set glasses on the desk and then pulled a bottle from the small wine rack on the other side of the room. Carefully, he scraped off the wax, popped the cork without spilling any, and filled the three glasses. Raising his own glass, he made a toast. “To Stiles, may your lands and your future be filled with peace and prosperity!”

“Here!” Derek added.

Glasses clinked, and they drank. Derek pulled Stiles’ hand up to his lips and kissed it. Stiles was shocked that he would go so far before Peter, but Derek’s eyes gleamed with mischief.

“I almost forgot,” Peter started, “you will need to learn about your holdings. I will summon you when reports come in, so you can see how your property is handled and learn from it. I expect them once or twice a fortnight.”

“It will be a pleasure to learn from you,” Stiles replied. He may consider Peter a friend, but it will be the Monarch helping him and tutoring him in the ways of being a good landowner! Could his life become any more bizarre?

Between the raise of his caste, good wine with one friend and the right to hold the hand of the person he cared for more than life itself, he could see no way this evening could get any better. Once the wine was gone, Derek and Stiles said their goodbyes to Peter. Stiles felt as if he were walking on air, and not only from the pleasant effects of the wine. With plans of using the stairs from Derek’s chambers up to his room, they made their way across the corridor.

Having held Derek’s hand had the usual effect on Stiles, and walking that short way beside Derek was like being in a lightning storm. It felt as if there were sparks flying between them, and it took everything Stiles had to keep his hands to himself. Derek opened the door to his office, allowing Stiles to enter first, and closed it behind himself. He led Stiles through that room and his sleeping quarters to the small room with the stairs that led to his own quarters. When they stopped before the stairway, Derek seemed unsure of himself.

“Wait,” he said. Derek released Stiles’ hand and returned to his bedroom. Stiles could hear some rustling sounds coming from the other room, and then Derek was back.

He stepped up to Stiles, and knelt on one knee, holding a beautiful silver ring bearing a stone of many colors that seemed to match Derek’s eyes. Stiles held his breath. Was it to become official this day?

“I almost lost you. I never want to lose you in any way again. Promise me you will wed me when the time comes. Prove to me that you want to spend your life with me, and I will promise to be forever true to you, from this day forward.”

Emotion overwhelmed Stiles, and his heart felt as if it were about burst out of his chest from hearing those words. While it would not be necessary to hold Stiles’ affections with marriage, it meant he would be forever bonded to the man he had been promised to find. The ring was but more proof he belonged to the lord. “I am yours, my Lord, my Master, my Mate. To have you as my husband is more than I could have ever dreamed. I am yours and I have always been yours, even before I had laid eyes upon you. Yes, I promise to wed you and spend my life with you. Nothing could make me happier. I am yours!”

Derek slid the ring onto Stiles’ middle finger, where it fit. Stiles admired it only for a heartbeat, the time it took Derek to rise and wrap his arms around Stiles. One of Stiles’ hands knotted in the hair at the base of Derek’s head, the other slid behind the small of his back. Derek pulled them even tighter against each other, and the kiss that followed was passionate and full of hunger. When Derek finally lifted his mouth from Stiles’, they were both breathless.

They held each other in a snug embrace for many long, happy moments, before Derek spoke again. “What did I tell you about being careful with your words? Have I not cautioned you of saying things thrice? There is power in words, Stiles.”

“I was very careful with my words. I said nothing I did not mean to say. Yours I am, now and forever.”

Derek pulled him close once again, Stiles’ head lying on Derek’s shoulder. “Ah, Stiles. Would that we were already wed. You must leave to go to your room before temptation urges us to go too far.”

Arms slowly loosened from around him before Derek stepped back. “I will dream of you,” Stiles promised as he stepped to the door.

“As I shall of you,” Derek responded.

The last thing Stiles wanted was to end this day and climb the stairs to his room, but he knew it had to happen. They watched each other; the hunger in Derek’s eyes only fed the hunger Stiles felt as he opened the door to the stairwell. “Until tomorrow,” Stiles said, wanting it to come quickly.

“Until tomorrow,” Derek repeated.

Stiles turned and fled to his room before he gave in to his passions.


	10. Liberty

 

 

[ ](http://s1097.photobucket.com/user/TJRGlitter/media/Legacy%20of%20the%20Dragons/dividerLiberty.png.html)

Stiles apprenticeship resumed the following morning in the antechamber outside Derek’s sleeping quarters. Derek, Deucalion and he began their day by breaking their fast together. It was while they were breaking their fast that Stiles noticed Deucalion staring at the ring Derek had given him.

“That is a beautiful ring, Stiles,” he finally said when they were finished eating and had pushed their dishes aside.

“Uh, thank you,” Stiles returned, not completely sure he should say any more than that.

Deucalion locked eyes with Derek then. “The stone is filled with your essence. Does this mean you have made it official? Will there be an announcement?”

Derek raised his eyebrows as if shocked at the question. “That would not be appropriate before we have a banquet to celebrate Stiles’ elevation of rank, Deuc,” he responded.

 Stiles’ eyes popped open and shone like the sun. He could not believe his ears. “There will be a banquet? Like, for me? A ‘Celebration of Stiles’ type of banquet? With a lot food and drink? Good drink, not that tea you make, but, like, wine and grog? Lots of wine and grog? And food like stuffed boars with apples in their mouths where the juices run down your arms, but the meat tastes so good? Oh, and tarts! Will there be tarts? I love tarts! I especially love cherry tarts, they are my favorites. Apple tarts are good, too. I like any kind of tart really. I used to eat them when Master Garrison owned me. They were so good, but we never had a banquet for eating them. So is that what you are talking about? Something like that?” Stiles asked, his arms flailing in all directions with his excitement.

 Derek’s eyebrows rose higher the longer Stiles talked, until it seemed they were almost up to his hairline. “You realize, do you not, that besides food there will be people at the banquet? Not only will there be the handpicked people from here at the keep, but also citizens from the town of Kelderbury and representatives from the surrounding area. That means people will attend who have a push.”

 “Do you mean the town outside the castle walls? Where I saw the wild cat in the cage? Derek, we really need to save that cat from that awful merchant. He had a terrible push!” Stiles implored, his arms stretched out toward Derek as he made his point.

 Derek sighed, and Deucalion chuckled behind his hand.

 “Yes, we will go into town and see if we can find your cat. _After_ we are done with your lessons for the day,” Derek promised.

 Stiles sighed. He felt that trying to learn magic was an obvious waste of time. Saving that cat was much more important. At least Derek promised they could go and save the poor thing today.

 He watched as Derek and Deucalion began pouring over scrolls and books, trying to decide which spell he should learn next. He did not understand why they kept trying to teach him; he could not perform even the simplest magic. It had been moons since he had begun apprenticing for Derek, and he had yet to do so much as light a spark.

 He turned to look at the cold hearth, unusual in itself. Normally Scott tended the hearths and kept them lit. Wood was stacked and ready to light inside the beautiful stone structure. Shaking his head, he sat down and crossed his legs before the pile of wood. It would be a waste of his time, but he had nothing better to do until the sorcerers found what they sought.

 Closing his eyes, he reached deep inside himself for his pool of power, just the way Derek had taught him. This time, he felt something different. He was not sure if it was his power or not, elusive as it was. With all his concentration, he focused on this strange feeling. Then he forced it out, along with a power word for fire, and aimed his concentration toward the hearth.

 His mind’s eye saw a tidal wave of color, rushing toward the stacked logs. He opened his eyes in time to see a wall of fire engulf not only the wood, but also the whole wall and the furs in front of the hearth. He thought he might have heard shouting, but over the roar of the fire, it was hard to tell.

 Suddenly, he was too weak to move. The fire was worse than the sun had been on his travels to this land. Then as abruptly as it had begun, the fire was out. Derek was rushing him to his sleeping quarters, and Stiles was having a difficult time keeping his eyes open. He was unsure if he had dreamed that Derek removed his leggings and touched his knees, or if it had really happened. He must have dozed, for when he next cracked opened his eyes, he was beneath the linens of his Master’s bed with his master and Deucalion talking quietly in chairs nearby.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, lad! It is good to see you open your eyes again,” Deucalion exclaimed.

 Stiles only wanted to sleep more, but he opened his eyes wider and looked at the sorcerer. The man had a huge smile on his face. Then Stiles noticed the light coming in through the windows and realized he had done more than doze. “How long have I slept?” he asked.

 “You have awakened in time for noon meal,” Derek’s replied.

 He felt stiff inside his skin and stretched his arms wide, which turned into a full body stretch. That was when he realized he was naked under the linens. It was not his lack of clothing that worried him, but his partial erection with Deucalion sitting beside them. He watched as the man rose and bent beside the fire, pouring something into a mug. Stiles sighed. The last time Deucalion served a mug of something to him, he was brewing that awful herb mixture. He suspected it would be more of the same today.

 It was. The bitter brew was hot and scalded his mouth, and Stiles would have dropped the mug if Derek had not been right there and ready for an accident.

 “Ven, that is hot!” Stiles exclaimed.

 “All this time I thought you were smart. You watched me take it away from the fire, and you are surprised it is hot,” Deucalion taunted with a smirk.

“You should be proud of yourself. You made fire. Now we just have to work on your finesse so you do not burn the keep down,” Derek said, full out smiling with pride.

 The realization struck him. “I made fire! _I made fire!_ I finally touched my pool of magic.” Stiles was exuberant!

“I would say you touched it. Derek will need new wall hangings and carpets for around the hearth,” Deucalion stated.

Stiles got the impression they both thought it was funny. Then a thought flashed across his mind. “Why?”

 “What do you mean, why? That fire you made was intense. It is a good thing we put it out fast, or your burns would have been a lot worse than they were,” Derek explained.

 “No, I mean why today? What changed so that all of a sudden that I can use my magic?”

Derek and Deucalion exchanged looks, and then Deucalion spoke, his strange accent almost poetic. “It is possible it was because of the strike to your head. It could also have been because you were on death’s door. As far as that goes, the magic we poured into the damage Gerard caused may have affected the seal on your power. Since I could never get a feel of the blocking spell, there is no way to be sure.”

Stiles tried to think about that. Sleepy as he was, it felt as if his brain were working slowly. Then something that was said earlier filtered back into his mind. “Wait, did you say I woke in time for noon meal? How am I to go to weapons training when I can barely keep my head up?” Stiles asked.  

“And that goes back to why we need to work on your finesse. You poured everything out in one blast. It was a good thing we were here for you,” Deucalion told him lightly.

“We would appreciate it if you do not attempt any magic without us nearby. You might have burned with the room, otherwise,” Derek added.

Stiles’ mouth dropped open. He finally touched his power and almost killed himself at the same time? He looked at Derek and saw worry flash across his face.

“As to your arms practice, that has been put off for a day or two. I will not have you go to Chris until your strength has returned. We have already informed him of this. You, on the other hand, will spend the remainder of the day in bed, resting,” Derek told him.

“What? No, you said we could go rescue the cat today. We have to save her, Derek!” Stiles knew he sounded like he was whining, but he had to make Derek understand.

“Tomorrow. _If_ you have enough strength to walk, I will have a carriage take us down to the port town and rescue your cat.”

“But…”

“First you will eat and finish drinking the infusion. Then you will go back to sleep and recover your strength. You are not going anywhere today,” Derek stated with no room for concession.

Stiles sighed in defeat, hoping the beautiful cat was still all right.

* * *

Stiles woke the following morning with the early morning sun shining through his windows. He stretched and yawned, scratching all the places that itched and found gratitude for sleeping in such a fine bed.

He had spent all of yesterday in his master’s bed. On the few waking periods he remembered, Derek and Deucalion had always been nearby, talking quietly. Near evening, Derek had given him his own personal robe, assisted him up to his room and helped him into his sleep shirt.

Now, however, it was tomorrow, and he was determined to save the cat he had seen down in the port town.

He carefully sat on the edge of the bed, feeling a little light headed. Thankfully, after sitting there a few moments, the dizziness passed. Rising to his feet, he found he had his balance. Stiles still felt weak, but nothing like the day before.

Pouring some water from the ewer to the bowl beside it, he washed, dressed and made his way downstairs to his master’s suites.

Stepping through the door to the office where they studied spells, Stiles froze in horror as he stared at the hearth. It was obvious servants had scrubbed the stone of the hearth, wall, ceiling and floor, but black streaks remained in the cracks from the fire he had called. The hangings and carpets were gone. This end of the room stood in silent accusation of the damage he had caused. He realized then the type of destruction he was capable of doing with his power, and it terrified him.

 “You look like your eyes are going to fall out of your head,” Deucalion said with his lilting accent.

Stiles jumped and turned, almost falling over his feet. He had forgotten the others were there. “I could have hurt someone yesterday.”

“Yes, you could have and did. The fire burned you quite badly. It is a good thing we were here for you,” Derek replied. “Now, leave that and come break your fast with us.”

He stood there a moment longer, searing the image into his mind. This was something he never wanted to forget. With the sound of Derek clearing his throat, he turned and joined them for first meal.

Stiles took his seat, and saw all three of them had a mug of that vile concoction. _Good, at least he did not have to drink it alone_. 

Derek and Deucalion had begun eating before Stiles broached his request. “Can we go into the port town to save the cat when we finish eating?”

“Jackson will be downstairs with the carriage by the time we finish,” Derek answered.

Stiles’ smile could have lit up the room, and he dug into his food with a flourish. He finished first, and could no longer sit still while he waited for the others to clean their plates.

“Perhaps you should quit dawdling and take him to get his cat before he shakes apart,” Deucalion said to Derek with a smirk.

Derek looked at Stiles, who sat tense and frozen from Deucalion’s comment.

“I do not think he shall shake apart, Deuc. Look, he is a vision of stillness.” The expression on Derek’s face told Stiles that he was struggling not to laugh.

Stiles jumped out of his seat. “Come on, Derek! Please?” Stiles implored.

Smiling openly now, Derek wiped his hands and mouth on his napkin. Finally, _finally_ he stood from his chair. “Let us go, then. I certainly do not want to see you shake yourself apart.”

Deucalion chuckled. “Good luck, you two. I will see you when you return. I cannot wait to see this cat of yours.”

“Thanks, Deucalion. I cannot wait for you to see her,” Stiles said as they stepped through the door.

Before long, they were sitting side by side in the carriage. Stiles’ senses awakened to the close proximity and their privacy. It had been so long since he had allowed himself just to bask in Derek’s pull.

Stiles turned to look at the other man, and found his strange, colorful and beautiful eyes locked on him. He glanced at Derek’s lips, remembering the too few kisses they had shared, and licked his own lips, wanting more.

“We cannot. While it seems we are alone, Jackson is on the other side of this seat,” Derrek warned, quietly.

 _Am I that easy to read?_ Stiles wondered.

After a short pause, Derek continued. “I will be yours soon. You have touched and used your magic. You are a sorcerer, and you are a major landowner. We only have to wait until your banquet and the announcement of the fact you own what used to be Gerard’s property before we can be publicly betrothed.”

“I dream of you at night,” Stiles confided in a whisper and then lowered his eyes, knowing the color was rising on his cheeks.

“And I of you. I dream of all the things I want to do to you, with you, and things you will do to me. I dream of touching you, kissing you, and bedding you freely with no consequences to worry about. I dream about taking care of you, pleasuring you and hearing you scream out in gratification. Oh, yes, Stiles. I do dream of you. If that is the only way I can have you now, I will take it!” Although Derek’s voice was quiet, it grew rougher and deeper with each word he said.

Their eyes locked again, and what Derek just confessed? Stiles knew exactly what he meant. Those were the dreams he had, the reality he wanted. Yes, he knew, and his erection knew. He was painfully hard right now, between the pull and knowing Derek dreamed the same things he did.

He pulled his eyes away from the man who had changed his life, the man who had saved his life, the man who he desired with all his being. It was then that he noticed the cushion lying on the floor.

“What is that?” Stiles asked.

“I had Jackson bring a dog bed so your cat would have something comfortable to lie on when we took him back to the keep.”

Stiles had never thought of that. “The man said she was mean.”

Derek smiled and his eyes twinkled. “I think we can keep her calm.”

Derek looked too confident to disbelieve him, whether Stiles knew what he had planned or not. By that time, the noise drifting into the carriage told him they were in the market place. Stiles became more anxious with each beat of his heart. When the carriage finally stopped and Jackson climbed down to open the door, Derek laid a hand on his arm. The pull, the sweet, sweet pull, calmed him. “Thank you,” Stiles told him, his heart slowing to a normal beat.

“If your cat is still here, we will save him, worry not,” Derek assured.

Stiles nodded, and then the two of them climbed down from the carriage. They were standing in front of the largest tent on this small alleyway. It was early enough in the morning that all the canvas sides were down. Someone had painted Animals of every kind on the front, showing what was for sale here.

Derek found a tie, and slipped inside. Stiles followed him closely.

A young man was feeding the puppies, and he stood up quickly when he realized he was no longer alone. “Master not open yet,” he explained.

“Where is you master,” Derek asked.

The slave looked around as if for help. He looked Derek up and down, obviously realizing he was an important man. “You da man coming for the pelt? Master not expecting you till tomorra.”

 “What pelt?” Stiles demanded.

The lad looked surprised for Stiles to question him. “Why, da cat. Wert no one interested in him ‘cept for his pelt, ye know. Master out back with him now.”

 _He was too late!_ Derek ran out the back of the tent with Stiles on his heels. They saw the merchant standing over the cat’s cage with his hands on his hips.

“What are you doing?” Derek demanded.

“What am I doing? What are you doing? This is my establishment. Who do you think you are to be back here, when I am not even open yet?” the merchant asked in return.

By this time, Stiles was beside the cage. The cat’s eyes were closed, but she was still panting shallowly. Her fur was dull and there was vomit all over the cage and cat’s fur. She was very near death.

“I am Lord Derek, the Monarch’s nephew and the royal sorcerer. Now answer my question. What have you done to this cat?”

“I have a buyer for its pelt. I fed her some poison, but the dumb animal just does not know how to die. She keeps vomiting the poison back up. It looks like this last time will work; she kept it down. The longer it takes, the worse her pelt looks.”

Derek grabbed him by the front of his shirt and tossed him several paces away. The man landed with a groan in a heap.

“You disgust me. I am taking the cat. Pray I never find you doing something like this again.”

Derek then joined Stiles at the cat’s cage, and he opened the door to the cage.

The cat never opened her eyes as Derek threaded his fingers through its fur and began chanting. Stiles had one eye on the merchant as he made his way to his feet and stood back to see what they were doing. His other eye was on Derek. Suddenly, he saw a stream of bright color connecting Derek to the cat. Stiles squatted down beside Derek and focused on the stream of color, Derek’s magic. He was able to follow it into the cat, somehow. He watched as Derek’s magic changed things in the cat, altering them slightly. Stiles was not sure what he was doing, but the cat began breathing normally, instead of the faint, fast panting.

Stiles thought Derek was all done when he stopped chanting. Instead, his hands filled with color, although not quite as bright as the stream of magic when he began. He slid them over the cat, cleaning her fur and returning it to its natural sheen and color. When he pulled his magic back, he carefully picked the cat up and put her into Stiles’ arms.

It was then that Stiles realized his face was wet with tears. He could not believe Derek had gone so far to protect this cat. Hunters brought animals down every day, whether for food or to protect the land, yet Derek had saved this one for Stiles.

Derek stood looking at him a moment longer and wiped the tears from Stiles faces with his thumb pads before he turned to the merchant. “What is your name?”

“Everyone calls me Haigh, my Lord.”

“What would cause a merchant who sells animals to do that to such a beautiful cat?”

The merchant looked nervous under the glare of the Lord, and well he should. The power Derek had just displayed would scare anyone on the wrong end of such a gaze.

“My pardons, my Lord. My best customer came in a little more than a fortnight ago. He was shopping for a new dog to breed with the ones he owns. He spotted the cat and desired its pelt for his bedroom wall. Not wanting to lose such a valued customer, what else could I do?”

Derek’s glare did not soften with that excuse. “What kind of customers do you cater to? Who is this dog breeder you speak of?” Derek demanded.

The merchant swallowed, and Stiles could see a bead of sweat running down the side of his head. “That would be Mister Gerard Argent, my Lord.”

Derek grabbed him by the front of his shirt again and pulled the man to him, so they were almost nose-to-nose. “Argent is dead. If you do not run a better shop, you may follow in his footsteps.” Derek shoved the man away from him and turned back to Stiles.

“Let us leave this place before I do something I regret later.” Derek lightly placed his hand on the small of Stiles back as they walked around the merchant’s large tent toward the carriage.

He carefully laid the cat on the cushion and started to climb in, but stopped when he heard Derek talking to the driver.

“Take us to the hunting cabin, Jackson.”

“What?” Stiles asked. “You do not plan on leaving her at some cottage out in the middle of nowhere, do you? You cannot do that to her, please! Allow me to tend her, Derek.”

Derek paused, studying Stiles. “You _will_ be tending her,” he finally said.

”Oh,” Stiles said. He felt ashamed, assuming Derek would just leave the cat out in the forest on her own after he had just saved her. “Pray, forgive me and my rudeness. I am just so worried about her.”

Stiles could almost see the many thoughts going through Derek’s head before he sighed. “There is nothing to forgive.” He said it plainly, raised his hand for Stiles to climb into the carriage and followed him.

Stiles sat on the floor petting the cat, leaning against the seat between Derek’s legs. Derek’s pull was enticing, but for some reason, the cat almost pulled him, also. It was not as if the cat’s pull were in any way arousing, but something about her drew Stiles, and he was not willing to turn his back on anything that felt that way after so many summers of people repelling him.

With one hand running over her silky fur, he turned and looked up at Derek. “Thank you.”

Derek raised one eyebrow slightly. Stiles was worried his master might be tired after the healing, but he had so many questions for him that could not wait.

“What did you do? I could see a ribbon of color going from you to her. It looked similar to the river of color I saw when I started the fire. That was your magic, was it not?

“Yes, and that trickle is what you need to learn to do and not send it all at once. Remember our first lesson with the milk?” he asked.

“I understand that, but what did you  _do_? I tried to watch what you did and saw you changing things,” Stiles explained.

Derek raised his eyebrow again and smiled. “It is good you observed, that was an excellent learning experience for you. What I did was neutralize the poison in her system and reverse the damage it had done. She is still in need of food and water. Without it, she will not make it. I think the merchant was starving her as well as poisoning her. We will need to tend her until she is able to feed herself.”

 “I will do that,” Stiles stated, again looking at the beautiful cat beneath his hands. “How will we be able to feed her and make her drink while she sleeps, though?”

“We will see when we arrive at the cabin. For now, if we are quiet, it is a rare moment we have alone.”

Stiles looked over his shoulder and saw desire smoldering in Derek’s eyes. That heightened his own desire in return, where normally he tried to ignore his feelings. He was not sure what had changed Derek’s mind about Jackson on the other side of the wall, and frankly, he did not care. He laid his cheek on Derek’s knee and ran his hand down his calf, wanting to do so much more.

“Come sit up here?” Derek asked.

How could Stiles refuse a request like that? Desire and need filled him as he carefully stood in the moving carriage. In that moment, he made a decision to do something Derek would probably not allow, but he threw caution to the wind anyway. He straddled Derek’s thighs and sat on his lap, facing him.

Derek’s eyebrows rose for a moment as they stared into each other’s eyes, but much to Stiles surprise, Derek slid his arms around him. Leaning into his master, he threaded his fingers through his silky-soft, hair. Wrapped in Derek’s arms and pull, thoughts of everything except Derek fled his mind. As his arousal grew, he wondered what the future would hold. Were they really mates? Would there really be a wedding bed? Would he die of ecstasy wrapped in his master’s pull without _and_ within?  

His master nosed along his collarbone, sending chills of excitement through him. As the carriage gently bumped along the road with Stiles’ erection finding friction against Derek’s body, Stiles thought he might have found the Promised Hereafter. When Derek’s fingers roamed up his back and down his thighs, he was sure he had.

It was not long before the carriage slowed, nearing the cabin, and Derek’s hands came to a halt. Stiles rose and situated himself on the bench beside Derek. He knew his face was flushed from his arousal, and he was doing his best to calm down. Looking at Derek, Stiles knew he was not the only one having that problem.

More than anything, Stiles wished they could finish what they had started. However, he was oh, so thankful for what little he could get. Now was not the time to be thinking such thoughts, though. He did not wish to descend from the carriage with an erection so that even Jackson could guess what they had been doing.

He glanced down at the cat and could see that she was breathing easily. Derek had saved her, just as he had saved Stiles. While he was grateful, he could not understand why Derek would do that on Stiles’ whim.

“Why did you save her?” Stiles finally asked.

“It was important to you. I have never seen you so obsessed by anything before. Therefore, it became important to me,” Derek replied and went on after a pause. “What are you planning to do with her?”

“I do not know. Ever since the first time I laid eyes on her, it is almost as if she draws me to her. That is not possible, is it?”

Derek was quiet a moment before answering. “I feel no pull from her, nor have I from any animal. Perhaps your magic is different from what we first thought.

It was then that the carriage pulled up to the hunter’s cottage and stopped. The carriage swayed as Jackson climbed down and opened the door for his Lord. Derek stepped out, and Stiles followed him. Once on the ground, Stiles leaned back into the carriage and pulled the thick padding the cat lay on toward him, and carefully picked her up in his arms. Derek plucked the cat’s pad up and rested his fingers resting lightly on the small of Stiles’ back, leading Stiles through the door Jackson held open to the cabin.

The cottage was not very large. I had only one room, a wood table and six chairs, several cabinets along the far wall, as well as a hearth on the wall to the right of the door.

Once Stiles settled the cat on the bedding Derek had placed on the floor, he followed his master over to the hearth.

“I do not want you to use your power without both Deucalion and me with you until you have control. In the meantime, now that you can see the essence of magic, I want you to watch me carefully.”

“Yes, Master,” Stiles replied, knowing this was not his mate speaking, but his Sorcerer teaching him. He had no problem telling the difference between all the different things Derek was to him.

Derek raised an eyebrow and then shifted his eyes to the closed door. They were not in his chambers, and Stiles knew better than to call him Master here. “Your apprentice humbly requests your forgiveness, my Lord.”

 With a snort and a roll of his eyes, Derek settled himself. “Pay attention.”

A trickle of magic emanated from Derek, no wider than a thread, and it lit the wood in the hearth with a power word for fire.

“You need to use no more power than that for a spark,” Derek told him.

Stiles hoped he would learn control like that soon. He felt inside himself for that strange feeling pool of power that he had finally touched only yesterday. While he was able to touch it, it reminded him of oil, slick and illusive. He saw Derek rise, and followed him.

 

They sat on the floor beside the cat, and Stiles ran his hands over her shiny fur.

“We should try to see if she can take some water. I did as much as I could when I healed her, but what she truly needs now is food and water,” Derek shared.

Stiles looked up at him in confusion. “The cat is out cold. How can she drink?”

Derek merely cocked an eyebrow and smirked, and then he stuck his head outside. Stiles heard him speak in a low voice, although he could not pick out the words. When he returned, he sat on the floor beside Stiles.

“That is another thing. Shall we continue to call her ‘the cat’, or will you give her a name?” Derek asked.

Stiles continued to pet the beautiful animal, and thought of how similar the cat’s past was to his. He thought they both were probably contented until some major change came into their lives. With him, it was Master Gerard owning him. With the cat, it was the merchant. They had both been looking at death. Then, Derek came into their lives and rescued them, healed them, liberated them.

 _Liberated them._ “Liberty. We shall call her Liberty.”

Derek’s eyebrows rose in surprise, then a smile broke across his face. “I like it. Liberty.”

It was not long after that when a tap came to the door. “Enter,” Derek ordered.

Jackson entered with a bucket of water and a hand-sized cloth. “Will this do, my Lord?” Jackson asked.

“Yes, thank you,” Derek replied.

Jackson set them within reach of them, made a small bow and stood by the door.

Derek then rose and went rummaging through the cabinets and returned with a small fry pan.

Derek set the pail and the pan where he wanted them, and then spoke a couple power words Stiles had never heard before as a trickle of power settled under Liberty’s head and ran toward the pan. Stiles watched as Derek tied off his power, allowing the thin membrane of magic to remain in place. Finally, he looked at Stiles.

“If we are lucky, Liberty will swallow if we dribble water into her mouth. The channel of power I set down should direct any spilled water away from her, so she will not be lying in water.”

With that, Derek took the small rag and dipped the end of it into the water. He allowed drops of water to slowly slide into Liberty’s dry mouth. Stiles held his breath, waiting to see her swallow, terrified that she would not. After the third try of using the rag to drip water into her mouth, she finally swallowed.

“Derek! She swallowed! This worked!”

“Yes, it did. Now, since you said _you_ wanted to take care of her…” Derek handed the cloth to Stiles.

“My Lord, I am here to serve. Should not this job be passed to me, not a freed man such as Mister Stiles?” Jackson asked.

That got Stiles’ attention. He looked up at Jackson, who was standing just behind him and flat out barked a laugh that quickly went flat.

“Mister Stiles?” Stiles finally ventured.

Color rose in Jackson’s face as he carefully studied the floor by his feet.

Derek quickly filled in the silence. “Stiles, when you are in the public eye, all the other servants _will_ call you Mister. I hope you do not find it laughable each time it happens.”

Stiles never considered the fact that anyone would ever call him by a title. It was just too far out of his reality. At least, it was before he met Derek. Properly chastised, Stiles realized Derek was right. “Yes, my Lord. I will learn to curb my laughter in public.” He then turned to Jackson. “My apologies, Jackson. You are the first to call me that. It sounds so foreign.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Mister Stiles.”

“All right, then. Jackson, as to Liberty, this responsibility belongs to Stiles. If he needs your assistance, it will be up to him to ask you.”

Stiles was proud that Derek allowed him to tend to Liberty, although the thought of asking one of the servants to do something was beyond him. He thought of himself as equals to them, even though he had risen in caste. Ordering servants around was not something he felt he could ever do.

“I can handle this, Jackson. Thank you for your offer, however. I have no plans to burden you any more than you already are.”

Jackson nodded to Stiles, and then turned his focus on Derek. “My Lord, do you need anything else, or shall I tend to the horses?” he asked.

“Yes. I need you to return to the keep and alert Lord Peter as to where we are. Ask him to send a hunter back with you upon your return.”

“My Lord,” Jackson said with a small bow and backed out of the room.

Stiles began to drip water into Liberty’s mouth while his head filled with all the changes he had to accept with his freedom.

Derek dug around in the cupboards and found sleeping furs. He spread one out beside Liberty’s pillow for them to sit on while Stiles dripped water onto her mouth. Every so often, she would swallow and a small wave of relief would pass through Stiles.

Jackson returned with a hunter before long. He was tall and thin with curly, light-brown hair and vibrant blue eyes. He was dressed oddly, his leather clothes were all rather tight and a shade of brown much like the bark of a tree.

“Isaac! It is good to see you again,” Derek said, standing to clasp forearms with the other man.

Isaac looked at Liberty, lying limply on the pillow. “Surely you did not require a hunter to kill that, I hope.”

“No, we are trying to save her, actually. Isaac, this is Stiles, my apprentice. Stiles, this is Isaac, the best hunter we have at the keep,” Derek shared.

Stiles rose to clasp arms with him. “Well met,” they both said at the same time. While Stiles knew the other man was tall, he was surprised to see Isaac was a whole hand taller than him.

“We are going to need some fresh meat, for us and the cat when she wakes. You think you can scrounge something up in the forest around here?” Derek asked Isaac.

“I will see what I can do, my Lord. Is there anything in particular that you might be hungry for?”

Derek thought for a moment. “Boar sounds good, if you come across one. If not, anything, as long as there will be enough to feed a starving cat when she wakes.”

“Boar does sound good. I shall have Jackson find enough wood to cook one while I am gone, and we shall see if I can track a nice sized one down.” Isaac returned with a gleam in his eye, and then he nodded his head and left the cabin.

Derek and Stiles stood in the doorway and watched as he strung a bow and slipped a quiver of arrows across his back. As he walked away, it struck Stiles that he looked like a creature described in the old stories his mother used to tell him. Tall, thin, dressed in green or brown, and used a bow and arrow as a weapon. Stiles wondered if he had pointed ears, also.

Stiles turned to go back to Liberty, already growing weary from his recent loss of power and inactivity. He hoped she would awaken soon. Once again, he dipped the cloth into the water and allowed it to drip into her mouth.

Dusk had come and gone, and the aroma of roasted boar filled the small cabin when Liberty stirred. Stiles had been running his hand through her fur, but his hand stilled as he watched her closely. Her eye opened, and she rolled onto her belly, glaring at everyone in the room except Stiles.

“It is alright, Liberty. You are safe now,” Stiles told her quietly.

Liberty looked directly into Stiles’ eyes, which is something he had never seen before, and she rubbed her head on his knee, almost as if thanking him.

 

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	11. A Long Day

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Liberty slept on the large pillow on the carriage floor. Stiles felt as if he had accomplished something big as they returned to the keep with her the following morning. Even though she was still sleeping constantly, they had gotten to Liberty before it was too late, and she was alive and healthy.

The carriage was crowded, since Isaac was riding back with them, sitting on the bench across from Derek. Stiles sat cross-legged on the floor by Liberty’s pillow, leaning against Derek’s calf. He kept glancing up at Isaac, curiosity nagging at him to discover whether the hunter had pointed ears or not. However, his curly hair hid their tips. Stiles was dying to find out if woodland elves were real, but did not want to ask such a personal question of someone he barely knew.

Derek and Isaac were talking about the rabbit infestation in the area as Stiles’ mind wandered back to the night before. Isaac had brought a boar to the cabin, carrying it over his shoulder. The beast was large enough that Stiles would have thought it to be too heavy for one person to lift, let alone carry through the forest. It had only one arrow hole, through the front of its chest and into its heart. In Stiles’ mind, it seemed to be an almost impossible shot. Isaac wasted no time gutting the animal and began roasting it over the fire Jackson had set. Once Liberty had awakened, she ate almost half of the boar by herself, and then she fell back asleep. Stiles ate and fell asleep beside her in one of the many sleeping skins Derek had found in the cabinets. When he woke this morning, he no longer felt weak and tired from wasting his magic, which meant he had arms training after mid-day meal.

Before long, they were back at the keep. Stiles followed Derek and Isaac out of the buggy, turned and patted his chest. “Come here, Liberty. Let us get you inside.”

Liberty slowly rose and stretched, and then she jumped at Stiles. If he had not been alert, he would have dropped her. As it was, Liberty had her front paws and head on Stiles shoulder and he was holding her as if she were a large baby, ready to for burping!

“My Lord! Did you see that? It is as if she understands what I say to her,” Stiles exclaimed, and then turned to look at Derek.

Derek and Isaac were both looking at Liberty with stunned expressions. “I did see that,” Derek said, brows furrowed. Isaac, on the other hand, stared at Stiles like he had grown a second head before he turned and left with his bow and quiver.

Carrying Liberty up the stairs to Derek’s suite was quite strenuous, and Stiles was grateful that he only had to climb one set of steps with her.

When they stepped into the office, Stiles was surprised to see it looking normal. The smoke streaks and fire damage were gone. Light flickered from candelabrum over the large oval table, as well as all the sconces. There was a fire in the hearth, new carpets covered the floor, and a different hunting scene tapestry hung on the wall to the right. A very drab room compared to the Lord who used it, for there was nothing boring about Derek.

“It is about time you two returned. I was afraid you had run away from all your responsibilities, to leave me saddled with them,” Deucalion said in his strange accent and with a smile. “So this is your cat. She really is quite beautiful.”

Liberty turned her head toward Deucalion and began growling quietly. It was something Stiles felt more than heard. “It is all right, Liberty. Deucalion is a friend. He will not hurt you,” Stiles assured her.

The large cat then turned back to Stiles and rubbed her head on his chin. Derek had set Liberty’s bed on the floor and stepped over to clasp hands with Deucalion. “Stiles named her Liberty. We arrived in time to save her. Can you believe the merchant was trying to poison her to sell her pelt to Gerard of all people? I wanted to rip his throat out when he told us that,” Derek shared with Deucalion.

Deucalion turned his attention to Liberty, seemingly evaluating her health as Stiles set her on the floor. Liberty took one lap around the room and then settled on her pillow, closing her eyes.

“She will need dishes for food and water,” Stiles stated.

“We have a table full of dishes right here. I hoped you would be returning this morning,” Deucalion said.

With that, the three of them sat at the table and removed the covers from the food. They broke their fasts and spoke about the lesson plan for Stiles that day. Once they finished, Stiles scraped the remainder of the food onto one plate, and filled a bowl with water, setting them on the floor for Liberty.

“This morning, I believe we need to work on finesse. I want you to get to know your pool of power. I want you to feel it, and practice pulling a mere string of power to work with. Use no power words unless you have only a wisp of magic to wield. If you pull too much, you need to retract it, and quickly. Do you understand?” Deucalion asked.

“Yes, but the fire is lit in the hearth,” Stiles answered.

“It is. It might be safer to begin by putting a layer of ice on the milk instead of starting another fire. What do you think?”

Stiles thought of all the damage he had done and knew how much worse it could have been. “Yes, I think that would be a good idea. I mean, how much damage can I cause with ice?” Stiles responded.

He realized Deucalion and Derek were both looking at him and gauging just how much damage he _could_ do, which worried Stiles. There was no way he could hurt anyone with ice, was there?

“I am with you, Deucalion. Ice should be safer,” Derek concurred.

They had Stiles sit at the head of the oval table, with one of them sitting to each side of him. He felt very self-conscious because of the way they watched him so closely. Stiles closed his eyes and tried to ignore the fact that he was not alone.

His pool of magic was still there, vague as it was to his senses. He tried to get a feel for its size and shape. It seemed to change constantly and reminded him of smoke. Well, it was almost that hard for him to feel, so maybe his description was correct.

Stiles tried grasping a thin tendril of the smoky substance and began pushing the colorful ribbon out, toward the mug of thick milk sitting before him.

“Pull back!”

Stiles heard those words from both sides of him, and quickly pulled back, almost losing his hold on the wispy stuff, and opened his eyes.

“That was too much power. Try again, only this time make it thinner,” Derek explained.

Stiles sighed and nodded. He closed his eyes and again sought his power. This time when he thought he had a tiny amount of magic in his control and pushed it out, he had nothing at all. Diving back into his pool of power, he grasped another thin coil of color; made sure he had it in his control and pushed outward.

“Pull back!” he heard in unison again.

Once again, he pulled back, sending his conscious into the colorful pool, stirring the misty stuff with a thought. He tried grasping one color, one thread. However, it merely slipped through his mind’s fingers.

One failure after another filled the remainder of the morning. He was exhausted by the time they broke for noon-meal.

“Did you have this much trouble grasping at a thread of power when you began your apprenticeship?” Stiles asked the two experienced sorcerers.

“We did not begin our apprenticeship with the strength you have, so controlling small amounts was easy,” Derek explained.

Deucalion had begun cleaning things up when Stiles glanced down at the ring Derek had given him. “Should I leave the ring in my room for weapons practice?”

“No, wear it always. My essence fills it, and there are runes of protection etched on the inside of the band. I wish to give you as much protection as I can.”

“Will it not interfere with my weapons training?” Stiles asked.

“No,” he said. “Chris does not wish you harm. The magic reads the intent.”

“Thank you, my Lord. Pray, how does the magic work?” Stiles asked.

“If someone plans to harm you, the ring will put a push on him or her. It would feel much like you feel when you are around certain people. They will be more interested in not touching you, and putting distance between you and them, than harming you.”

“You honor me, my Lord,” Stiles told him. He felt humbled by the care Derek bestowed upon him, born and raised a slave as he had been.

A rap at the door broke into their conversation. “Enter,” Derek ordered.

Scott entered the room with a slight bow to Lord Derek. “I am here to take Stiles to noon-meal and then Mister Chris, if you are ready to release him.”

“We are done for the day, Scott,” Derek stated.

Derek looked at Stiles, a strange expression on his face. _Was it worry?_ “Do be careful with the weapons training. When you are through with Chris, I asked Isaac to work with you on the bow and arrow. There is none better than he with that weapon.”

Stiles was already tired. He could not imagine how he would make it through the day doing nothing, much less training. “Gratitude, my Lord.”

* * *

Scott led Stiles to the armory, which was in a part of the keep Stiles had never seen before. They went down steps and were under the main floor when they came to an open door.

“This is the armory. Chris will be waiting for you inside, so I will leave you here, Stiles. Good luck to you!” Scott told him, and then climbed the stairs they had just descended.

Stiles was surprised to find it so chilly down here. He looked to see if he could find any indications of magic, wards or something, but he found nothing. With no other ideas of what to look for, he stepped through the door of the armory.

Inside, he found an older man with light brown hair tied back in a queue, a short, salt and pepper beard, and Allison. They both turned to him.

“Father, this is Stiles. Stiles, this is my father, Chris,” Allison said.

 _Father?_ Stiles mouth fell open with his confused silence.

Allison must have noticed the state he was in, for she continued talking. “I do not tell many people about my situation. My mother sold me into slavery behind my father’s back. He came here when he found word of where I was, and told the Monarch of our plight. The monarch granted me my freedom and offered a position to each of us, since once my father left home, we had no home to go back to. Therefore, we live here and serve the monarch.”

“Your mother sold you into slavery? How? Why?” Stiles asked her, shocked at this news.

She looked down at her hands and then to her father before answering. “My mother wanted me to live with her uncle and try to convince him to put everything into her name. I refused. I always thought of us as rich. We had a nice house and never went hungry, father saw to that. Mother was not satisfied with that, though. As punishment, she sold me to a slave trader who was in the area.”

“Allison, why are you sharing this with me now?” Stiles queried.

“Stiles, my uncle, the one my mother wished me to live with, is Gerard Argent. I heard he almost slew you, and my father and I wish to apologize on his behalf.”

Chris put his hand on Stiles’ upper arm. “Yes, Stiles, we were very upset when we heard what he had done. If only I had known what I do now when I married into that family, but then I would never have had Allison. Lord Peter told me that Gerard is dead, and you now own his properties. The best apology I can offer is to train you to protect yourself the very best of your ability.”

Stiles thought about what Derek had told him about the magic of his ring. Chris had no problems touching him. He looked into the older man’s pale, blue eyes and saw his sincerity. He knew they were here in the keep because Derek felt a pull from them. They were trustworthy. Peter had faith in Allison to be a personal servant, and trusted Chris to train him. Stiles believed that neither of these people meant him any harm. “There is nothing to forgive either of you for. However, I will take you up on that training,” Stiles said with a small smile.

“Good! Good!” Chris exclaimed, returning the smile. Then he patted Stiles’ arm and released him.

Allison bowed her head and almost looked ashamed. “Thank you, Stiles. I hoped you would not blame us. I did not want to chance losing you as a friend if you found out later that we were related to Gerard.” She then looked up and met Stiles’ gaze. “I must go. I still have my chores to finish. Are we still friends?”

“Yes! Absolutely. Why would we not be? You have never done me wrong. Friends we are, friends for keeps. Forever friends is what we should be,” Stiles exclaimed, his arms windmilling in all directions.

“Thank you.” She then looked at Chris. “I will talk to you later, father.” With that, she left the room and Stiles could hear her footsteps fade as she climbed the stairs.

Then Chris turned to Stiles. “Before we begin, I think you need to know you have made a powerful enemy by stopping Victoria from taking possession of  her uncle’s property. She coveted that land with the idea of gaining power. I am familiar with the way she thinks, and I think she will probably blame you for her not owning it right now. There is no guessing what type of trouble she might try to cause you.

“While she was here, she found Allison. I do not know what went on between the two of them, Allison would not tell me. However when I found her, Allison had been crying

“With that said, it is time for you to learn how to protect yourself. Come; let me see what weapons will work best for you.”

Stiles stood frozen. The threat Chris described shook him to his core. He had never had an enemy before, and the only danger he had been in was from his last owner. _That_ experience was something he could have done without. He would have to study very hard to learn how to protect himself, not only with weapons, but also with magic.

Chris had taken a couple steps, but had stopped and turned when he realized Stiles had not followed him.

“Chris, do you not also hold it against me for owning Gerard’s estate now?”

“What? No, I prefer a simple life. As long as I have Allison, I am happy. I never had any rights to that land. Besides, if I did, I would have to contend with Victoria. I am quite content with my life here, and so is Allison. Now, what do you say we find you some weapons?”

Stiles nodded. “Yes, sir, I am ready for that now. Also, thank you for helping me.”

“You are welcome. Now, come.”

Stiles followed Chris deeper into the bowels of the armory. Looking around him, he realized there were aisles and aisles of weapons, either lying on shelves or hung on both sides of long, wooden walls that were almost as tall as he was. Everything was neat and organized.

Chris stopped and turned to Stiles when they might have been near the center of the room. “Lord Peter tells me you have no experience using any type of weapon and that you have no knowledge of how to protect yourself.”

“No, sir. None at all.”

“Allow me to see what you are made of, so we can find something that might fit you best.”

“Yes, sir,” Stiles replied.

Chris then reached for one of the shorter swords hanging from the partition. It was as long as Stiles’ arm and had a nasty curve. “The end of this blade is wider than where it extends from the cross-arms, making it very dangerous indeed.” He handed it to Stiles carefully, hilt first.

Stiles grabbed the grip and lifted it from Chris’ flattened palms. As he lifted it higher, the end wanted to fall to the floor.

“No, this one will never do.” Chris quickly set his hand back under the flat of the blade and indicated he wanted it back, and hung it where it had been.

He then walked around to the other side of the partition. “These are all straight swords. Let us try this one. It is double-edged with a central channel going down the middle of the blade that ends shortly before the point.”

 

  


Stiles slipped his fingers around the leather bound grip and lifted. It was heavy, but not so much that he could not lift it point first. The cross-guard’s ends angled toward the blade, the end of the hilt was round and flat, and it looked like it could be a weapon in itself. Altogether, it was the length of his arm and comfortable to hold.

“I love it! It feels good to hold. Thank you!”

“I am sure you will not be thanking me by the end of our practice,” he responded. Then Chris stepped back and watched him hold it for a moment. “Move your arm around with it. It should feel heavy enough to do damage, yet light enough to wield.”

Moving the sword around, Stiles realized that most of the weight was back by his hand, which made it feel balanced and controllable. Then Stiles decided to do some fancy footwork as he swung the weapon, and found the tip wedged deeply into one of the partitions.

Chris stepped up and put his hand on the grip. “I think we have enough information to start your lessons with a sword, anyway.”

Stiles pulled his hand away, and Chris pulled the weapon from the wall without knocking any other swords off. “I do believe this has been the first attack on my armory, though.”

Embarrassment filled Stiles, and he was sure he had turned red. He did not see the use of having a sword in his hand and not making impressive use of it, though.

Holding onto the sword, Chris led Stiles through the rows of weapons again. Soon they stood before a wall of knives. After studying Stiles carefully, he pulled one from the wall and handed it to Stiles, hilt first. Then he stood back.

“Without moving your feet, get the feel of stabbing with that one.”

Stiles looked at the black metal of the blade. Its shape was a lot like the sword he had just held. The blade was straight with an edge on each side that came to a point. Stiles touched the point and quickly pulled his hand back. A bead of blood welled on his finger. _Yes, it came to a very sharp point._ He looked up at Chris, but could read nothing from his expression. Looking down at the knife again, he saw it was wider down the center of the blade and had a small cross bar. Thick, black cords covered the grip, and a cone of metal stuck out at the end. Finally, Stiles stabbed out with it, as if he were having a knife fight.

 

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“How does it feel? Do you have any difficulty pointing it where you want?” Chris asked.

“No, sir. It feels very balanced and comfortable to hold in my hand.”

“Good. Hand it back, and I will find you some throwing knives you can keep in your boots.”

Stiles raised his hand and opened it. The knife laid there, point out, for Chris to take.

“Hmmm. I see I will have to teach you about handing off a weapon safely, also.”

Stiles looked down at his open hand and remembered the way Chris had handed the knife to him. He took the blade in his other hand by the hilt near the crossbar, leaving most of the grip free for Chris.

Chris smiled fondly. “You learn fast. Let us hope you can learn as fast on the practice field.”

“I absolutely have to agree with you on that thought,” Stiles replied, flustered.

He followed Chris down the aisle of knives a little way before the older man stopped, grabbing a trio of small knives off the wall. He handed them to Stiles to look at.

The blades could have been part of a set with the knife Stiles had just returned to Chris. Although they were smaller, the blades were black metal with the grip wrapped in a thick, black cord. The only real difference was the finger ring at the end of the hilt. He stuck his finger in one and twirled the knife around, catching it in his hand with the blade pointed back. _Just right for stabbing someone_.

  


With that thought, Stiles hand opened and he shoved all three knives back at Chris, unable to get them out of his hands fast enough. He really did not want to think about stabbing someone.

“I understand your distaste at the thought of using a weapon on another person. Using a knife or sword is dirty business, and I never trust anyone who enjoys the kill. Remember, these are for your protection. Unfortunately, they will be useless until you know how to use them. Therefore, we need to remedy that.

“I will make certain there is a sheath for all these blades and set them aside for you. For now, I think we are ready to go out to the practice field,” Chris stated, setting all the weapons on a table on their way out of the armory.

They climbed the stairs, walked through the keep, and exited through a side door in the west wing. Stiles was not sure what exactly he expected, but it was not this. The high walls of the practice field included the keep itself. There were poles in the ground with straw people and wooden shields attached to them, as well as straw targets at the far end of the field.

The field was marked with groups of soldiers. Some were practicing with wood swords, some used staffs, and a few were picking up and throwing large chunks of tree trunks. Those men were massive in size.

Chris led him over to a building in the closest corner. “This is where you will find what you will need for practice. They are heavier than the weapons you will be using, which will help you build the muscles you need faster.” Chris lifted one from a nearby table, and then he set it back down and walked to another table full of swords. He lifted another wooden sword and handed it to Stiles. “This one should do.”

After grabbing one for himself, he led Stiles out to an area no one was using. “Take a stance, like this,” Chris told him. After studying the older man, Stiles spread his feet and bent his knees, lifting the sword. “Do not move,” Chris said.

Then Chris walked up and pushed Stiles with a hand to his chest. Stiles windmilled his arms, almost hitting Chris with the sword, and took a step back so he would not fall. “What did you do that for?” Stiles asked.

“You need to be balanced to fight. This time when you get into position, think about your balance.”

Stiles got into position once again, this time thinking more of his balance than copying Chris. When Chris pushed this time, he kept his balance. He looked into the sun-browned face of the older man and knew he was pleased.

Chris had him practice some moves, and then they tried some light sparring. While Stiles was able to remember how to set his feet, how to hold his balance, and where his sword should be, his co-ordination prevented him from successfully accomplishing those moves. He had tripped over his sword several times, and twice he ended up on the ground before Chris even moved.

After the sun had moved a couple fingers to the west, Chris suggested they work with the throwing knives for a while. “Working with a long knife is much the same as with a sword, only closer,” Chris told him.

The practice area was thinning out when they moved toward the targets. He then pulled several throwing knives from different places in his clothing.

“You hold the knife like this, by the end of the grip so it can spin when you throw it, follow through with your arm and release.” Chris then threw the knife, hitting the target in the dead center. “Now you try it.”

“That looks easy enough,” Stiles exclaimed. It even looked fun.

He took one of the knives Chris offered him, held it the way Chris did, and threw. Stiles mouth dropped in stunned embarrassment. The knife did not even come close to the target, and it had looked so easy!

Chris handed him another knife. “Again.”

Stiles tried it again. And again. Then they collected all the knives and tried it some more, over and over, only coming close to hitting the target once.

“What am I doing wrong?” Stiles asked.

“You are doing everything correctly. It will take practice to teach your muscles where the target is.”

It was then that Stiles realized he had an audience. Isaac stood from the log he had been perched on and approached them.

“Who smoked the walls to bring you out of the woodwork?” Chris asked Isaac.

Isaac raised an eyebrow. “Good day to you, too, Chris. Derek asked me to teach the lad the bow. Are you ready to hand him over yet?”

Chris frowned and shrugged. “He is all yours.” He then turned his attention to Stiles.

“Meet me here after noon meal each day. Grab a practice sword from the area where we picked yours today, and you can practice the moves I taught you while you wait for me. That way, we can practice sparring once I arrive. Believe it or not, you are doing very well for the first time you ever touched a weapon,” Chris told him while stuffing knives back into all their hiding spots under his clothes.

“That is difficult to believe. Thank you, sir,” Stiles responded, not believing it at all.

Chris then locked eyes with Isaac, and hatred seemed to burn through Chris with his furrowed brows and glare. Then he left the practice field.

Stiles turned his attention to Isaac. He seemed to be unconcerned by the look Chris had given him. There was so much about Isaac that Stiles did not understand.

It was then that he realized the other man had two bows strapped to his back; one was longer than the other one.

“I hope you will enjoy this weapon more than the others. It is by far the safest to use, because you do not have to be close to your opponent to protect yourself.”

“That would be good. As you saw, I would lose for sure if attacked,” Stiles said.

Isaac pulled both bows off his shoulder, handing the shorter of the two to Stiles. “First things first. You need to know how to string it before you can use it. Watch me, and do as I do.”

Setting the end of the bow on the ground, he waited for Stiles to mimic his actions. Once Stiles copied him, Isaac held the string, slipped his leg between the string and the wood of the bow, bent the wood around his thigh and pushed the string up into the indents at the upper end of the bow. Stiles did as Isaac had and felt pleased with himself once his bow was strung.

After all, _it was the first thing he had accomplished all day!_

“Very good! Now, take a balanced stance. Put the notched end of the arrow around the string, hold it with your first two fingers and rest the shaft on your other hand, like so.”

Stiles studied the other man and then copied him.

“Very good! Now, when you draw the string back, you will be pushing forward on the bow. Do it slowly and smoothly so your arrow stays true.

It felt awkward, and it was harder to do than Stiles thought it would be. Isaac made it look so easy.

“Very good! I want you to shoot at my arrow after it hits the far wall. The place seemed to clear out when they saw me here with more than one bow, so there is no one to get in our way.” With that, he let his arrow fly.

“What? I cannot even see your arrow now. How can I hit it?” Stiles released the string, sending his arrow off in a nice arc to hit in the dirt halfway to the wall.

Isaac held another arrow in his hand. He got very close to Stiles, locking eyes with him. “This time, I want you to use your power. I know you have power by the way you tamed the cat with your words. Feel your power. Look at the target, and draw it to you until you feel as if you could reach out and touch it. Then see the path your arrow will take to slice my arrow in two, and release the bolt into the sky, knowing where it will land.”

The serious way in which Isaac spoke those words shook Stiles. Isaac held the arrow up for Stiles, a smirk on his face.

It felt like a challenge to Stiles, and that angered him. He grabbed the arrow out of Isaac’s hand and took a stance as the other man stepped back. He glared at the wall on the far side of the field, willing it to him. His mind cleared of everything except that wall, his breathing slowed in his concentration, and suddenly, somehow, it seemed closer. Stiles could even see the arrow sticking into the splintered wood. He drew his arrow back, imagining the flight it would take and released the string from his fingers. The arrow shot off in a graceful arc, hitting the wood in the same spot as Isaac’s, splintering the shaft.

“I did it! I did everything you told me, and I hit your arrow! I really did it!” Stiles began jumping up and down, slapping Isaac on the back in his excitement.

The applause distracted Stiles from his accomplishment. He stopped and looked up at the keep and saw Derek, Peter, Deucalion and Liberty watching him from a balcony.

“Did you see? I hit Isaac’s arrow! I did it!” Stiles yelled up at them.

The men on the balcony waved. Isaac patted his back. “Now, let us watch you do it again,” he said and handed Stiles another arrow.

Time after time, Stiles was able to draw the target to him, making the shot easy. When they ran out of arrows from shooting them all into the same spot, they quit for the day.

“You have done very well! Remember this lesson tomorrow with Chris, when you are throwing knives. It will work for that, also,” Isaac told him.

“I just wish you had taught me that trick before my practice with Chris. Speaking of, can I ask what that was all about with you two?”

Isaac chuckled, but it held no mirth. “Yes, you can ask. I was seeing his daughter, and when he found out about us, he wanted to kill me.”

Stiles looked at him in shock, and his mouth opened before he gave it permission. “What, were you improper with her?”

Isaac snorted. “If I had been, I would have understood Chris’ actions. No, it was because he does not want his daughter associating with my kind.”

Stiles looked at him and saw this as an open door to ask the question on his mind. “Your kind? Are you a woodland elf or something?”

The other man raised an eyebrow, looking both surprised and amazed. “That is one of the names your kind gives us. Sprite is another. The name we call ourselves is much longer. Very few humans know of us. Lord Derek obviously does. I am sure the Monarch does, also. Did they tell you?” Isaac asked.

“No, my mother used to tell me stories about your kind. I confess that I have been trying to see the tips of your ears since we met.”

Isaac laughed at that comment, and then pushed his hair back so Stiles could see his pointed ears. “So, was your mother one of us?”

That question surprised Stiles. “I do not think so. Her ears were not pointed, nor are mine.”

“In spite of that, you have the power to speak to, and command, a wild animal. It is not impossible for one of our kind to have rounded ears. My brother’s ears are rounded.”

Isaac had picked up all the damaged arrows as they spoke. “Really?” Stiles asked as they headed out of the practice field.

“Really. It is not normal, but it happens,” Isaac explained.

“Will I see you again tomorrow?” Stiles asked.

“Yes. I will have different targets for you to shoot at then. That way, I will not have to remake all my arrows.”

“Good!” Stiles exclaimed.

When they reached the gate, they clasped forearms. “Much gratitude for helping me, Isaac.”

“You are most welcome. Until tomorrow, Stiles.”

They released each other’s arms. Isaac headed off toward the woods, and Stiles turned to the keep.

He was exhausted. As he trudged his way up the two flights of stairs to his room, he thought about his long day. He had felt that he was a complete failure the whole day. Then Isaac showed up, _and he succeeded at something_ , which made everything better. He was sore from using muscles that he was unaccustomed to using, however he knew that would pass.

He slipped into his room and headed toward the ewer of water so he could wash himself. Standing there, he could clearly feel Derek’s pull from downstairs. He quickly stripped, washed and donned clean leggings and a jacket. Then Stiles hurried down the stairs from his room.

The door at the bottom of the stairwell was open, and the first thing he saw was Derek, sitting in the chair he had been sitting in the very first time Stiles had descended those steps. Just the sight of the man who had changed everything in Stiles life made butterflies flutter in his chest. The expression on the other man’s face let him know Derek was glad he was here.

Stiles stumbled to a stop, holding on to the doorframe so he would not fall. He could see that a small table of food had been set up, with two chairs to sit in.

“I thought you might want to dine with me here this evening,” Derek told him.

“Yes. Yes, I would like that very much. Food would be very good after this long day.”

Just then, Liberty prowled into the room. Stiles went down on his knees, and the large cat went to him, rubbing herself along Stiles’ sides. “I am glad to see you, too. You look so much healthier than when Derek saved you.” Stiles wrapped his arms around her and allowed Liberty to rub her head against his face.

“I think she missed you. She has not been that friendly to any of us.”

“When did she wake? She was still very sleepy when I left for arms practice. I saw her on the balcony with you. Did you see what Isaac taught me to do? He told me about himself. He thinks I may have elf blood in me, too. Did you know he and Chris do not get along?” Stiles could not seem to get words out of his mouth as fast as the thoughts flew around in his brain.

“Slow down, slow down. Liberty finally woke shortly before we went out to watch you on the balcony, so yes, we saw. What do you mean; Isaac thinks you have elf blood?” Derek asked.

“He told me that because I have the power to calm a wild animal with a few words, I have the power to draw the target to me. And I did! I could see it so clear, and so close, that I would have sworn I could reach out and touch it. Yet the target was so far away, I could barely make it out.”

“It was amazing to watch you hit the same spot time after time. I imagine it is possible that Isaac is right. Interesting.”

Liberty bit into Stiles’ jacket sleeve and pulled him toward the table of food. Derek chuckled. “On the other hand, maybe she is not so wild of an animal. She seems to know her way around a room easily enough. I think she is hungry again. Shall we sit down to eat? There is plenty to share with her.”

Derek rose from his seat while Stiles shook his arm free from Liberty’s teeth and stood. They went to the small table, and sat. They each filled a plate for themselves, and then Stiles filled a plate full of meat for Liberty. Derek poured them each a goblet of wine, and Stiles was elated that it was not more of that tea Deucalion made. Then he thought about how strange it was for Derek to have wine.

“Are we celebrating my success with the bow and arrow?” Stiles asked.

“No, we are celebrating the fact that the banquet for your elevation is in ten days. We need to think about setting a date for our ceremony.”


	12. The Banquet

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Sweat was dripping into his eyes as he struggled to block Chris’ practice-sword. Somehow, his own seemed to have grown much heavier since they began practice. Yesterday, Chris never touched Stiles with his sword; they only went through the motions. Today Chris told him he would learn faster if he had to feel the failures of his blocks. Yes, Chris only hit him with the flat of the blade. Still, it hurt like Hades! He would have quite a few bruises to show for practice today.

Stiles jerked around to protect himself and tripped over his feet, again. The floor of the practice field was sand, just like every place in this sweltering, Ven forsaken land. How could something that was so fluffy and flyaway that it turned footprints into mere dimples when he stepped elsewhere, be so hard when he fell on it? That was something Stiles just could not figure out.

Chris held his hand out to help him up, just like all the other times he found himself lying on the hot ground. Stiles grabbed his hand, and Chris easily jerked him back to his feet.

Sand stuck to his sweat, so it was everywhere on him. It was on his skin, in his clothes, and even between his teeth. To make it worse, everyplace there was sand, it itched. At least, he hoped it was the gritty stuff instead of sand fleas. Just thinking about them made him itch even more. He remembered them from his long trek from the boat to the slave block.

Stiles got back into position and raised his blade. It was getting to the point where Stiles could barely pick his weapon up to protect himself anymore. Chris suddenly straightened from his crouch and took a step back.

“My Lord,” he said over Stiles’ shoulder.

Then Stiles noticed the pull. He had been so engrossed with his thoughts that he had missed the feel of Derek’s approach. Stiles turned and smiled through the sand and sweat running down the sides of his face. “My Lord,” he greeted.

“Chris. Stiles. I do not mean to disrupt your practice. As you were,” Derek told them.

“I believe we are about done for the day. Stiles started out protecting himself well, but his muscles need some building up before we can go further,” Chris shared.

“How are the lessons going?” Derek asked.

“He throws the knives like he has done it his whole life. This is strange, because yesterday he could not hit the target at all.” Chris looked at Stiles thoughtfully as he finished speaking.

Stiles could not keep the proud smile from his face as Derek looked at him in surprise. “Really?” Derek asked with his eyebrows almost comically high on his forehead.

“Really, my Lord.”

“Hail, my Lord! Are you here to give Stiles a lesson of your own?”

Everyone turned to see Isaac approaching them.

Chris glared, and then looked at Stiles. “We are done for the day. Same time tomorrow, Stiles. My Lord,” Chris said with a slight bow, and then he turned and strode out of the practice area.

Derek looked at Stiles, as if seeing for the first time the dislike Chris had for Isaac and confirming Stiles’ tale of it. Then he focused on Isaac.

“No, I am here for a lesson from you. Can you teach me to ‘draw the target’ as you taught Stiles?”

Isaac’s eyes popped wide open with a look of surprise and discomfort. Then he focused on Stiles. “Go pour some water over your head. Wash away some of that sand and cool off before we begin.”

A hush had fallen over the area with Derek’s appearance, so he could easily hear them talk as he walked over to the well. It was off to the side, so he could watch them and felt no shame in doing so.

“I can try, but I do not think you will succeed,” Isaac finally answered.

“Placate me,” Derek said blandly, and then he reached for the long bow on Isaac’s shoulder and skillfully strung it.

It was news to Stiles that Derek had experience with the bow. In addition, it was the first time Stiles had seen Isaac so serious around Derek. He bent over and dumped water over his head, grateful for its cooling effects, all the while observing the two men. He rubbed at the remaining sand and poured more water over himself. Once he felt cleaner, he took a hearty drink of the water left in the bucket. With water running down his tunic, he returned to watch Derek shoot.

Isaac walked to the other side of the practice field and stuck the stems of cherries all over the greying, splintered wall. When he returned, he handed Derek an arrow and described what he needed to do to draw the target.

“Feel your power, and use that power. Concentrate on the target until there is nothing else. Call it to you with your mind until you feel that you could almost reach out and touch it. See the path your arrow must take to slice into the target, then ease back your string and release the bolt.”

Stiles was sure Derek would succeed, just as he did everything else. Everyone on the practice field also seemed enraptured watching Lord Derek receive a lesson with the bow. Derek stood there, concentrating. Finally, he slowly lowered the bow and looked at Stiles.

“That is all you do to ‘draw the target’ to you?” Derek asked Stiles.

“Yes, my Lord,” Stiles replied.

“You touch your pool of power?”

“No, I have never tried that. I saw no reason to. The target came when I concentrated on it,” Stiles explained.

“You merely concentrated on the target?”

Stiles paused, thinking, before he spoke. “I have difficulties thinking about only one thing, so I put everything I have into concentrating on the target. Once it begins to draw toward me, all my other thoughts quit trying to interfere, and my mind is left alone with only the target.” Stiles shrugged his shoulders with his hands out, then slapped them down on his thighs. It was simple to him.

Derek turned toward the target again, very focused. More time passed before he admitted defeat to himself and returned the bow and arrow to Isaac.

“You know Stiles is a sorcerer, and so he has magic, do you not?” Derek asked Isaac.

“You introduced him as your apprentice, so I suspected as much. He has an aura around him, quite like yours. You thought he was using those powers to draw the target, and therefore thought you could do the same? I do not believe he is using those particular talents on the field. I have told Stiles what I suspect.”

“Is there a way to be sure?” Derek asked.

“Does it matter?” Isaac returned.

“I believe he is my mate. What if it is only the elven magic that pulls me?”

Stiles stood wide-eyed and open mouthed at those words. _He might not be Derek’s mate?_ He did not know how to feel about that.

“Well, my Lord, that must mean you are also drawn to me. Shall we high-tail it to my rabbit hole in the woods and do the nasty?” Isaac leered at him, waggling his eyebrows with a foolish grin on his face.

Relief filled Stiles when Derek began laughing and visibly relaxed. “Gratitude, Isaac. You are right.” Derek paused before he went on. “Do you really believe Stiles if of the blood, then?”

“He can calm wild animals and draw a target. I know of no others who can do these things.”

Derek and Isaac both gave Stiles an appraising study. “He is not so tall,” Derek observed.

“He is not full blooded.” Isaac retorted.

About that time, Stiles stumbled over his own feet.

“He is not lithe and nimble,” Derek added, obviously trying not to laugh.

“That he is not, unless he has a bow in his hands. Then he is truly one of the blood,” Isaac inserted, huge grin on his face.

“Would you two stop? I am right here!” Stiles said and stomped his foot on something hard in the sand, and then began hopping around, holding his foot and groaning.

Neither Derek nor Isaac could hold back the laughter then. “I see you have your work cut out for you this day. I shall be about my business and allow you to get back to your own. Gratitude for trying to teach me how to draw the target, Isaac.”

“The honor is mine, my Lord.”

By this time, Stiles had calmed down and was standing quietly. “Are you leaving, my Lord?” Stiles asked.

“I must attend the Monarch. Do you need healing?”

“No, my Lord. I just…” Stiles flailed his arms and looked around. He really wanted Derek, his mate, to stay and watch him succeed at _something._

“If possible, we will watch you from the balcony,” Derek told him, guessing what he wanted.

“You honor me, my Lord,” Stiles said, humbly.

“As Isaac said, you are something to behold with a bow in your hands. When you are finished here, you should stop off at the baths. The hot water will soothe your muscles. Isaac, Stiles.” With that, Derek turned and left the practice field, while Stiles stood there grinning like a fool.

Once Derek was gone, Isaac focused on Stiles. “I hung cherries all along the wall. Practice drawing the target by putting an arrow through each of them.”

He could not help grinning. He loved drawing the target. Not only did it make him feel good to succeed at something, it also calmed him in a way he had never been before. It slowed his mind. That was important, since he always had several things spinning in his head at the same time. If only he could find a way to slow his mind down all the time!

Stiles quickly strung his bow and took a stance, drawing the target close. It was not long before he had gone through all of Isaac’s arrows. He slung the bow over his shoulder and they both went to pull arrows out of the fence.

“I did not tell you, but yesterday while at my apprenticeship with Lord Derek, I was a complete failure. Then, this morning, I was able to pull just a thread of power to freeze the top layer of milk, twice. I was also able to handle smaller amounts of it than yesterday. Do you think it is because of all the time I spent drawing the target to me yesterday?” Stiles asked as they collected the arrows.

Confusion filled Isaac’s face. “I know not, Stiles. There are many types of magic in the world. If one type can affect another, it is something I have heard nothing of. Perhaps you should ask Lord Derek.”

Stiles sighed. “I did, and neither he nor Deucalion had any idea. They thought it might just be from all the practice of trying to grab a mere thread of the stuff yesterday. That maybe as I learn the feel of it, I will be able to grasp smaller amounts easier. It did seem easier, but almost remarkably easier compared to yesterday. That is why I thought you might know.”

“I am sorry, Stiles, but I cannot help you with that,” Isaac said as he pulled the last arrow from the wall. They walked farther away than they had been, and Stiles began drawing the targets again.

 

* * *

 

Stiles was kept busy with all his training, so time flew by, until suddenly, it was the day of the banquet. Over the last few days, he had improved significantly in his morning sessions with Derek and Deucalion. He was now able to control a thread of power more than half the time, and he was trusted to light a fire in the hearth. His sessions with Chris and his sword practice continued to be a struggle, however everything he did with Isaac came easily.

That day, Derek and Deucalion had mingled with the arriving visitors from the break of day. They wanted to see who was attending and keep an eye on them if they had no pull. Because of that, Stiles began that day with Chris and finished with Isaac before noon meal. By the time he headed for the baths, all he could think about was the banquet that evening.

It was a banquet _for him!_ Just the thought of it filled him with awe. It was difficult to believe all the wonderful things happening to him. He had been raised as a slave, freed mere moons ago, there was a feast for him tonight, and at the next full moon, he would wed a Lord. He shook his head at himself and continued on to the bathhouse.

Unlike most of the bathhouses that he had heard about, there was no strigil or scented oils lying about. There was only scented soap and hot, moving water. There was no better way to sooth aching muscles, except Derek’s magic fingers as they rubbed the discomfort away.

He was just falling asleep to the gentle movement of the water when the door opened, and Derek entered.

“Are you all right?” Derek asked as he squatted down beside Stiles wet form.

“Yes, my Lord. Is there a reason I should not be?” Stiles asked sleepily, and he reached back to touch his Lord and Master. The pull increased significantly. “Hmmm, why do you not join me in here?”

Derek smiled. “I noticed a tingle like burn in my marking only moments ago. As badly as I wish to join you, it may be the reason my mark burns. Nevertheless, I do not believe that is so. You need to finish here and go back to the safety of your room. Once you are ready for the banquet, I want you by my side at all times.”

Stiles looked at him questioningly.

“You are in some kind of danger, and I need to find out why before it troubles you. Deucalion is still keeping an eye on the crowds, trying to find the problem there. Aiden has been called to stand outside the door here until you are through. Once he arrives, we will take you back to your room.”

“Pfft. If I had my choice of guards, I would pick Isaac. He would not have to be near me to guard me,” Stiles stated firmly as he quickly washed.

Derek was quick to acquiesce. “I will see to it that he is found and that he is stationed at the banquet for your protection.”

“Gratitude,” Stiles responded.

Derek grabbed a towel for Stiles to wrap around himself as he rose to climb out of the bath. The heated water may not have cooled him any; however, his muscles felt much better. Slipping on one of the robes hanging on the wall, he slid his feet into a pair of house slippers and was ready to leave once Aiden arrived.  

Stiles did not wait long. They took the long tunnel back to the west wing where the royal suites were; water squished in his house shoes with every step he took. He had one of the royal guard and the royal sorcerer guarding him. Could he be any safer? Yet as Aiden walked in front of him and Derek behind him, Stiles felt more like a prisoner than someone under their protection.

When they arrived at Stiles room, Aiden entered first and checked for anyone or anything unusual before allowing Stiles and Derek to enter.

The moment Stiles stepped through the door, he knew someone had been there. There was a new outfit lying on the bed. His eyes popped at the design and the shiny studs on it. It was white, and looked like something Lord Derek would wear.

“Where did those clothes come from?” Stiles asked, indicating the neatly aligned garb on his bed.

“Since Peter ordered clothes made for all three of us, and it has the look of Mistress Araya’s stitches, I would guess these would be for you to wear tonight.”

Nothing was left to chance, though. Aiden and Derek both inspected the garments; the difference was that Derek used magic. A colorful film spread over and through the outfit before he pulled his power back.

“I found nothing, my Lord,” Aiden stated.

“Nor did I,” Derek added. “You should don these, and when you are ready, join me in my suite. I do not want you unguarded until the threat to you is taken care of.”

“I will remain outside the door and escort you to Lord Derek when you are ready.  My Lord,” Aiden said with a small bow to Derek and stepped outside the room.

“And I must alert Peter of your need for Isaac. Pray, do not tarry. There are more guards and protection near Peter and I.” He ran the back of a finger down Stiles cheek. It was a light touch, but more than enough to magnify the pull and Stiles desire. Then Derek slowly pulled his hand back, turned and left through the same door that Aiden had stepped out.

Stiles found himself some smallclothes to wear, and then stood looking at the fine jacket with all the sparkling studs on the cuffs and shoulders. There was a design in what looked like thin, black rope at the neckline and down the front, as well as around the studs on the cuffs. There were matching long pants with the same black piping down the outside of the legs. He ran his fingers over the fine material, and knew it was the softest material he had ever felt. Once he was dressed in the elegant clothes, Stiles found them to be so light that it was almost difficult to tell he was wearing anything.

He stepped though his door. Aiden was standing there as promised. The guard stepped in front of Stiles, led him downstairs to Derek’s rooms and made sure he was safely under the Lord’s eye before leaving.

Derek was wearing a mid-thigh jacket and pants exactly like Stiles’, except Derek’s was black. He was wearing all his medallions of state, and his official ring. Just the sight of the man took Stiles’ breath from him.

Once the door shut behind the guard, Stiles stepped closer to Derek. “You look amazing, my Lord,” Stiles said.

“And you are a sight to behold,” Derek responded.

“Gratitude, my Lord.”

Derek hesitated before he shared what was on his mind. “Peter needs to know when we have decided to have our ceremony. It is necessary for the sorcerer’s mating ritual to be under the full moon. We recently had one, so the next full moon is more than a fortnight away yet. That will be the first chance we shall have for the rite. If you wish, we can wait for a later one.”

Stiles held his glance and could see all the worry Derek felt behind those words. “I have no desire to wait. If the full moon is the earliest we can wed, that is good by me.” All the things Stiles dreamed to do with the other man would have to wait until after the rite, and he was tired of waiting. Then he had another thought. “Um, will I be moving into your room after we marry? Or will I be keeping my room? I mean, I do not wish to be pushy or anything, but your bed is large enough for several people. Several large people, even. I know I toss much while I sleep, and maybe I snore a little, but not too much. I am sure you will still be able to sleep.” Stiles arms had flown in all directions in an effort to clarify his words. Then they fell to his side as he made an effort to calm his nerves. “To feel your pull through the night would be...”

Derek stopped him from saying anything else by covering Stiles’ mouth with his lips. So much love filled the kiss that Stiles thought he would burst. When Derek’s arms wrapped around him, Stiles drew the other man even closer. Between the enticing pull and the most arousing kiss he ever had, Stiles wished the ceremony were this night, instead of the banquet.

Derek slowly pulled back from the kiss, still holding him close, but far enough away to talk. “I had hoped you would want to stay with me. There is nothing I would love more than to be able to hold you all night long.”

“You honor me, my Lord,” Stiles told him.

“There are things I wish to do with you that have nothing to do with honor,” Derek shared, with a gleam in his eyes.

They kissed once again, and then Derek loosened his hold and stepped back, his hand having slid down to grasp Stiles’ fingers. “Unfortunately, we need to be in Peter’s office. His guards will walk with us to the hall.”

Stiles felt disappointed. He would much rather finish what they had started. “Maybe we could stay here, and forget about the banquet,” Stiles suggested.

Derek raised his eyebrows. “Does this mean you do not want to go to your banquet, the one where Peter will announce your rise in caste so we may wed, or are you proposing treason to the land?” Derek asked in a mocking voice.

Stiles’ eyes grew wide with shock. “Neither, my Lord. Let us go to the banquet this night. The banquet will be good! Maybe there will be tarts. And drink! Yes, some good drink would be good right about now.”

Derek chuckled.

They left Derek’s suite and crossed the hall to Peters. The twins opened the door for them, and they stepped inside.

Peter was standing by the hearth in his office, his clothing very similar to Derek and Stiles’ outfits. Peter’s was more ornate. However, what made it truly stand out was the color. _It was silver!_ It was not grey, or even greyish white. It looked as if it were made of strands of metal woven together. There were even three spikes on each shoulder, almost as long as Stiles’ little finger. Stiles had never seen Peter look so regal.

“Peter, really. Can the treasury afford a jacket like that?” Derek asked. Stiles turned to looked at Derek, and did not know if he read awe, confusion, or distaste.

Peter merely made a face at Derek in reply.

“You look to be a very majestic sovereign,” Stiles told him.

“Gratitude, Stiles. That was exactly the impression I was hoping to achieve. It may become necessary this evening,” Peter said. “That said, shall we make our appearance to the hordes of loving vassal, and pray that none of Gerard’s family are here to dampen our dining pleasure?”

With that, Peter led them back out the door they had just entered. Ethan and Aiden left their stations at the door, and one of them walked several steps ahead of them, the other several steps behind. Stiles was unsure which was which, although both had a hand on the hilt of their swords.

As they walked the corridors to the main hall, they made little noise, and talked not at all. Everyone was on alert. The only noise they made was the click of the guards’ boots.

The doors were open to the grand hall, and noise and gaiety spilled out into the corridors. There were so many people, and Stiles felt a push from the crowd long before they enter the large room. As they walk through the wide, double-doors, he recalled the last time he felt such a push. The day he almost died. His mind reverted further, recalling a push so severe that he lost his stomach every time Gerard punched him.

Stiles was ready to lose his stomach now. This push was almost as strong as Gerard’s touch. He panicked and knew he had to get away, far away, where he could hide before Gerard punched him again, or struck him over his head.

He was overwhelmed and drowning in memories, lost to what was real. Stiles turned and ran as fast as he was able, not seeing anything or anyone. He just ran. He ran in a direction that looked familiar and felt like safety.

Stiles found a spot behind a door, at the top of some stairs and curled in on himself. He relived the night Gerard made him want to die. He relived that terror and pain, repeatedly. Shaking in fear and unable to breathe, Stiles lost all hope. All he could see in the dark room was his own death

 

* * *

 

Mumblings turned into words that seemed to find their way into Stiles head. “Stiles. Open your eyes. Look at me, Stiles. Please, Stiles, wake up. Do not do this to me, Stiles. Awaken. You are safe now, Stiles. You can come back to us.”

He slowly opened his eyes to look for the source of those works, and found Derek’s face a mere hand from his own. Those beautiful eyes, filled with worry. That should never happen! No one should ever fill Derek’s eyes with anything except happiness.

“You gave us a fright. You know you are safe, do you not?” Derek asked him.

Although he was still befuddled, Stiles knew one thing. “You saved me, again, my Lord.”

He felt cramped, and tried to move. It was then that he realized he was in the stairwell between his room and Derek’s sitting room. He wondered how he got there. Then he realized that Deucalion, Peter, and the guard twins were standing in his room, all looking at him.

“What happened,” Stiles asked.

“That is something we would all wish to know,” Peter shared.

Derek helped him rise, and then led him back into Stiles’ own room, where the younger man sat on the storage chest at the end of his bed, and Derek knelt before him. “We had just entered the main hall when you turned and ran. Why did you do that?” Derek asked.

Stiles remembered then. He remembered the wave of emotions that came with the memories. He remembered the push. That was when he began panicking again.

Taking Stiles’ hand, Derek placed it flat on his own chest. “Calm down. You are safe. Breathe with me, Stiles. Think only about breathing with me.”

The pull of Derek’s touch grounded him. He had not even realized that he was holding his breath. He let it out, and after a couple tries, he was able to copy the way Derek pulled air into himself. He inhaled slow and deep to a count of four, and then he exhaled for a count of two.

The white spots before Stiles went away as he drew air with Derek.

“Keep breathing like that. Good,” Derek said. “Now, please tell us what happened. Why did you run?”

“He is here! He touched me! I would know his touch anywhere, Derek. He has come back from the dead to keep his promise.”

“Listen to me, Stiles. No one has come back from the dead. That is impossible.”

“No, Derek! I felt him touch me. His push was so strong I lost my stomach. No one has a push like that except Gerard! He is here, Derek. He is _here!_ ”

Derek was silent a few moments, as were the men behind him. “Gerard is dead. He is not here. However, that does not mean that there is not someone else at the banquet with a push like his,” Derek said, and then he seemed to go deep in thought.

Lord Derek turned to look at the others. “We need to find out who has a push strong enough to upset Stiles this way. I am sure whoever it is, is the reason my mark burns. Do any of you have an idea, short of using Stiles to find out who it is?”

They all looked at each other, none saying a word for many heartbeats. Finally, Peter spoke hesitantly. “All weapons were taken before the guests were allowed in. We could double the guards at the high table, and make sure Isaac stays at his side as well as you. Deucalion can move around the hall and try to discover something. I already have archers up in the hidden panels. They are watching everyone. Surely, the banquet is the safest place for him. He should return and aid us in discovering who could possibly be so evil. Even at a distance he should be able to point us in the right direction.”

Stiles began panicking again. His eyes were wild with fear and he looked from face to face. He felt hemmed in, trapped, suffocating in his spacious room.

“Nooo. I have to get out of here. He will touch me again, and I just know he will kill me this time. Please, save me. Get me out of here,” Stiles said in hitches to Derek.

“You cannot leave me or the protection of this castle. This is the safest place for you. Stiles, look at me.” Derek placed Stiles hand back on his chest. “Breathe with me, and concentrate on my pull. Feel it, wrap yourself in it. Yes, that is the way, calm down. Feel my pull.”

After many long moments, Peter broke the silence. “Derek, will he be all right?”

Derek’s attention remained on Stiles. “Gerard is dead. He is not here. We will keep you safe; I promise,” Derek told him. “This feast is for you, so it is necessary for you to be there. Peter cannot announce to the masses that you are now a landowner without you there. The people will want to see you.

“I will be there to protect you, as well as Isaac and many other guards. Stiles, you know you can protect yourself also, do you not? In the same way you call fire to light the hearth, you can send fire to someone attacking you.”

This thought took Stiles by surprise, and snapped him out of his panic. He could make fire now, and it would not matter if he used more than a thread, as long as he controlled his magic.

“Will you do this for me, Stiles? Will you return to the feast with me and sit by my side? We can sit close enough that you can wrap yourself in my pull once you can point us in the direction of the push. Will you do that for us? For me?” Derek asked.

Stiles did not want to. In fact, he would rather stay where he was, and spend the evening drinking that bitter tea Deucalion made. However, Derek asked him to return. _For him._ How could he turn down a request from the man who had saved him more than once?

“You will stay with me?” Stiles asked.

“Yes. I shall not leave your side.”

Stiles took a shaky breath. “I will return to the feast then.” _Even though he was terrified._

At that point, they heard snarling from downstairs. “Liberty! Derek, can she come with us?”

Derek hesitated before speaking. “Deucalion, please bring Liberty up here. I will not have Stiles return until extra guards and Isaac arrive. To answer your question, yes Peter, he will be fine.”

Deucalion slipped down the stairwell in which Stiles had hidden. After a nod from Peter, one of the twins left through the hallway door.

“Stiles, why did you run to the stairwell?” Peter asked.

He had to think about that and had no recollection of a planned destination. “I only ran to safety. Once I was here, it felt safer than any other place.”

Peter had his arms crossed, and he looked frustrated or impatient, whereas Derek looked worried. Then Liberty was running up the stairs and jumped up on the chest beside Stiles. She growled at the strange people standing there. Peter and the twin both took a step back.

“It is all right, Liberty. Everyone here is a friend. However, someone at the feast is not. I shall need your protection there,” Stiles murmured to the large cat.

Liberty only rubbed her head on Stiles’ neck in response. Stiles wrapped his arms around her, and the cat allowed him.

The clamor of guards coming into Stiles’ room attracted everyone’s attention and had Liberty growling again. Isaac was among them, his bow strung and in his hand.

“They are friends also, Liberty,” Stiles told her quietly.

Derek began speaking immediately. “Isaac, Stiles is in danger. We need your eye and steady hand to prevent danger from nearing him.”

“My Lord,” Isaac acquiesced with a bow to his friend.

“If you would do us the utmost honors and stay behind us during the feast, I will personally see to it that it is worth your while,” Peter asseverated.

“My Lord, I am yours to command,” Isaac stated with a bow to the Monarch.

Peter looked at the mass of people in the room and shook his head. Stiles looked at those same people, ready to protect his life, and he was astonished. However, after feeling the push he had felt earlier, he only hoped there were enough.

Deucalion ascended the steps, locked a collar around Liberty’s neck and handed the leash to Stiles. The collar was thick, but soft. Its black leather had gold strands decorating it. The matching leash was short, perhaps the length of Stiles arm, but very sturdy.

“You will have to keep her collared at the banquet,” Deucalion told him with his eloquent accent.

Stiles nodded, as Derek helped him back to his feet. “Stay by my side and concentrate on my pull. Do you understand?” Derek asked.

He felt frustrated with himself that he had run the first time, but the push was so strong he had almost lost his stomach. _That_ was without a touch. Stiles shuddered at the thought and then looked into Derek’s eyes. “I understand.”

When they left, Stiles walked closely beside Derek, with Liberty on his other side, while Deucalion and Peter walked ahead of them. Isaac, the twins, and six other guards surrounded them loosely as they returned to the banquet.

Stiles hesitated before they reached the doors, and caught Derek’s eye. The expression on the other man’s face was intense and determined, as well as worried. He knew deep in his heart that Derek would do everything in his power to protect him.

They stepped into the hall, and Stiles felt more than saw Derek’s eyes on him. To Stiles’ surprise, the push he had felt the first time was no longer there. He shook his head at Derek so he would know.

Peter, Derek and Stiles climbed the two steps to the high table, where Peter stood behind his seat and waited for silence. Derek stood to Peter’s right, with Stiles beside him, behind chairs of their own. The masses that filled the hall quieted. Allison poured wine into the goblets of those at the high table, while other servants poured wine for the people sitting below them. Peter lifted his goblet, and the sorcerers followed his lead.

“The property and holdings of Gerard Argent were ceded to the crown upon his death. The crown has deemed it proper to bestow those assets to Stiles, Derek’s apprentice, due to the extenuating circumstances at the time of Gerard’s death. You have all been invited tonight to honor our newest land owner, Stiles.”

A small commotion broke out near the entrance to the hall, while the majority of the room seemed captivated to be present for such an intriguing announcement. One voice rang out from near the doors.

“What extenuating circumstances? You stole Gerard’s lands!”

Peter’s face looked calm, only if you did not know him. The room silenced completely. “Gerard made a valiant attempt to slay Derek’s apprentice. Had Derek not arrived in time to stop him, Stiles would not be here today. Taking hostage of, and very nearly executing, one of the crowns’ men is treason. Gerard was executed, and his holdings became property of the crown.”

Stiles took a small step closer to his chair. “To Stiles. May your lands and talents forever prosper!” Peter said loudly and drank. All except a small fraction that they had passed on the way in drank to Stiles. Stiles was tense and worried enough that he almost emptied the contents of the goblet in hopes of finding a sense of ease. He had not even noticed how good the wine actually was.

With that, Allison held his chair out for Peter. Scott stepped up to Derek’s chair, pulling it away from the table, and a servant he had never seen before pulled Stiles’ chair out. She was obviously nervous because of Liberty sitting at his feet.

Stiles thought it was a true waste of a good servant to have them do something so mundane as holding out a chair. All of them were quite capable of pulling out their own chairs.

He looked behind himself and saw one of the twin guards standing at attention against the wall on the far side of Peter, the other between Peter and Derek. Isaac stood halfway between him and the wall, his bow still in his hand, his head turned toward the group making a ruckus near the entrance. Stiles could see nothing from where he sat, and he decided he liked it that way.

Stiles looked at Derek. They sat close, so Stiles could bask in his pull, however he wished they were close enough to touch. True, the pull was sweet, but there was enough push coming from the guests that he found it irritating.

The servant who had pulled his chair out then filled Stiles goblet again. He felt it was ridiculous for him to have a servant. He had experience enough to serve himself! _Ven! And the others at the table, as well!_

Now was not the time to remember his past. Derek leaned over to talk to him.

“Could you tell where the push was coming from? Do you have any idea which table, or even which person it was?”

“No. When we entered this time, I did not feel the push I felt earlier. I still feel a general push from the tables below, but that is all.”

Stiles could hear Peter talking to Derek from his other side. “Did he imagine it? Was all this fuss for nothing?”

“I did not imagine it!” Stiles averred a little too loudly. _Why would Peter say that?_

Stiles lifted his goblet in anger and drank deeply as kitchen helpers wheeled carts with tureens to all of the tables. The first course was spice soup, thick and steamy, with a scent that brought pleasant memories of his childhood back to Stiles. Served with the soup were thin slices of an aromatic cheese and warm, yeasty bread. One of the kitchen help, a very muscular black man with a prominent chin and easy smile, served Peter first at the high table, and then he served the sorcerers.

Once Peter began to eat, Stiles stuck his ladle into his bowl and tried to eat. Between his attack of panic earlier and his enmity for Peter’s disbelief, he had no appetite. He ate a spoonful or two and then pushed his bowl away. While he was sure it was as tasty as it smelled, it may as well have been sand to his tongue.

Stiles picked up his goblet, only to find it empty. He looked back at his server while holding it up, and the young woman quickly refilled it. He looked at her closely for the first time. She had beautiful, straight, white teeth when she smiled, long, sun-kissed hair, and the largest, kohl-lined, carob colored eyes he had ever seen on a girl.

She must have caught him staring at her, for she spoke for the first time. “Is there anything else, Sir?”

Stiles felt dumbstruck at the title, but he was feeling the wine by then, and the discomfort felt distant. “What is your name?” Stiles asked.

“I am called Erica, Sir. Is there something more you desire?”

“Erica. Erica. It fits you. Yes, please see that my goblet stays full. That is all I desire right now.”

The kitchen staff began wheeling out food on carts again. The next course was food from the sea. There were shrimps, eel and fish pickled in brine. Stiles had never liked any type of fish, so he drank wine and watched the crowd of people who had come for the banquet.

Derek touched his hand to get his attention. “Stiles, it might be better if you ate something. That drink will have you under the table in no time, if you have no food to dilute it.”

Stiles looked at the hand touching his. The pull had gotten stronger, but it felt as if a wall of water were between them. He then concentrated on the push, and realized he was almost numb to it. That was good: very good, in fact. He could take a weaker pull if the push disappeared.

Before long, the kitchen servant wheeled a boar with an apple in its mouth over to the high table. That surprised Stiles. He recalled his words to Derek the first time he had heard about this banquet, asking if there would be stuffed boars with apples in their mouths. This meal really must be for him, but the food lay as dust in his mouth. There were also heaping platters of sliced venison, minted lamb and rabbit cut into pieces. The aroma filling the room should have had Stiles’ mouth watering, but it did not. He filled his trencher with the juicy meats, cut them into bite-sized pieces, and set it on the floor for Liberty. She at least would enjoy the savory food.

Meat from the sky followed the meat from the land. The carts were laden with chicken, quail, and pheasant, all browned to perfection.

Stiles noticed Derek and Peter watching something in the area of the entrance, whereas Stiles’ view was blocked by one of the guards. He glanced behind him at Isaac and found his eyes locked in the same direction. Stiles refused to worry about it and drank deeply of his wine.

Musicians played quietly in the background, while guests devoured mountains of food. Trays of sliced melons, berries and cumquats were set on all the tables. Stiles nursed his wine as the others ate. The noise of the room, the music, the talking, knives on trenchers, all of it, seemed so far away, just like the push and Derek’s pull.

When almost everyone had finished eating, Peter stood to face the guests. “Ominous times are among us. Many generations ago, a legacy foretold the tidings this era has brought. For generations, the lines of the ruling family have all worried that the legacy would come to fruit during their time. The largest fear was that the savior of the land would have been… irrefutably incapacitated.”

Deaton approached the high table from somewhere below with a scroll under his arm and stood near the end of the table. Derek took Stiles hand and stood. Stiles desired to do nothing more than drink his wine, but he stood, and realized the room swayed with that motion. He pulled his face into a smile for the crowd below, and carefully held his balance.

“The other reason for this feast is to share with you that I have met my soulmate as foretold in the aforementioned prophecy, and it is Stiles. We wed at the full moon with the Monarch’s permission.” Everyone in the room stood and cheered tapped their knives on their goblets. Stiles reached for his wine and quickly swallowed the remainder in his goblet.

Peter held his hand out toward Deaton, who nodded and unrolled the scroll as the room again quieted.

“Some of you may know me, I am Alan Deaton, and I am head of the council. This is the prophecy of which our Monarch spoke,” he said and held the open scroll up.

Deaton cleared his throat and began. “When the one born heir abdicates for ancient Magic, the seat shall fill with blood unprepared. Beware; this is the sign of dire times to come.

"The one true mate has the power to save the land. Lower in caste, the pull of a strong spark will tell. Glamour will suffice to expose poseurs from mate.

"Chaos will awaken from their chance meeting, Ever working to rend their growing powers apart; For united is the power to destroy this life’s Chaos.”

Deaton then bowed to the Monarch and stood waiting.

Peter waved his arm toward Derek. “It has long been known that Lord Derek was the one who had to abdicate his seat for magic. We know Stiles was not of the same caste when we found him. Lord Derek, please, share with us how much of this prophecy has been fulfilled?”

During his speech, there was a disturbance in the back of the room again. “Silence!” Peter demanded. “Derek?”

Derek stood and again faced the masses.

“Stiles proved himself to be far stronger than he should be after so little training. I first felt the draw of his spark while I was still seated in my carriage, and he was in the town square near his home. He claimed to feel the same draw toward me. The events that followed as we attempted to have him safely housed in the keep proved to me that Chaos had awakened and had his eyes on us.”

There was a low rumble of many people talking at the same time, and then it quieted.

“Did you test the pull of his strong spark?” Peter asked.

“Yes, I cloaked myself in the magic of glamour so none would know me, yet he did. Since that time, his strength has grown,” Derek stated.

Peter replied, “I am satisfied that this portion of the prophecy has been fulfilled.” There was another disturbance by the entrance to the room and Peter glared in that direction. “Deaton, please read the rest.”

Deaton again cleared his throat and continued the reading. “If this mate has proven to be resilient and wise, Then purity and chastity upon their wedding bed Shall guarantee peace and prosperity in the land.

"If life’s embrace has defiled and ravaged this mate, Then the sullied sheets will precede the bloodshed, While famine spreads throughout the barren lands.”

Deaton then carefully rolled the ancient scroll, bowed to the Monarch, and stepped down from the dais of the high table.

Peter looked at Stiles, then to Derek. “Is he pure?” he asked.

Stiles could feel his face getting hot. _For the love of Ven, why ask that in front of all these people?_ There was no place to hide his face as embarrassment filled him. _Oh, Ven, take me now!_

Stiles could feel Derek looking at him as he fidgeted in his awkwardness, staring at his feet. “Yes,” He answered. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles watched Derek raise his arm to show the black sword and dragon inked there. “His arm was marked and linked to my marking. I spoke powerful spells over the ink and during the process while it was needled into his arm. The spells were not only to determine his purity, but also to alert me to danger that may accost him. That is how I found him, at deaths door, under Gerard’s hand.”

Derek took Stiles arm and raised it for everyone to see. “Only his purity causes the colors be so bright. He is pure, my Lord.”

“Then according to the prophecy, there will be peace and prosperity in the land. It will be treason if anyone does anything to change his purity before his wedding night. A slow death will be the penalty.”

The hum of people talking grew after Peter’s words. There seemed to be as much fog in Stiles’ head as the room seemed to have. _What was he saying? He would kill his nephew? Why would he threaten Derek?_

Stiles glanced up at Derek, whose whole focus seemed to be on the area of the entrance again. _Ohhh. Peter was not threatening Derek at all._

The room slowly quieted before Peter spoke again. “I knew all these facts when I approved Derek and Stiles’ wedding for the full moon. I have freely given you the proof in hopes you will help welcome Stiles in his new station. The past is over. We go on from here.” Peter held up his goblet, and the servants scurried to fill everyone’s cup. Derek held Stiles steady as Peter gave the toast, the pull helping to anchor Stiles. “Live long, and live happy. May peace and prosperity pave your lives. Cheers!”

Everyone said cheers and drank. Derek kissed Stiles sweetly after the toast, and Stiles enjoyed that more than anything else this evening had held.

“Much has been planned for your enjoyment this evening. Please, stay and partake in the entertainment,” Peter said to the guests.

The usual singers joined the musicians. Scantily dressed dancers moved to the beat of the music and jugglers tossed items around in different parts of the room. People continued eating and drinking, and no one really noticed as Deucalion and a group of guards surrounded a small crowd near the door and bustled them from the room. All eyes seemed to follow the Monarch and the two sorcerers as they stepped off the dais and slowly meandered their way out of the hall.

They were as alone as they could be outside Derek’s rooms when Peter spoke again. “Has the burn in your mark calmed yet?” he asked Derek.

“No,” Derek responded tersely.

“That is unfortunate,” Peter returned.

“What will you do with that group?” Derek queried.

“They can spend the night in the cells. Perhaps in the morning I will have a better idea as to what to do with them.”

Just then, Liberty bumped into Stiles’ leg, and he would have fallen had it not been for Derek’s steadying hand catching him. With his touch, Stiles noticed Derek’s sweet pull once again. It was a shame that the pull faded to nothing after all that wine, the same way the push had. He was grateful he could not feel the push, though. They said goodnight to Peter, and then watched the guards escort him to his own suites before Derek guided Stiles into his. Once inside, they removed Liberty’s collar.

“Who did the guards remove?” Stiles asked.

“A group of troublemakers were determined to tell everyone that you were Gerard’s slave, and that I killed him because he would not sell you to me.”

Derek’s steadying hand helped him walk through to the sitting room below Stiles’ room. His arms slid around Stiles, and they kissed, slow and deep. When Derek pulled back, he gazed into Stiles’ half lidded eyes. “It is official. We are pledged to one another. Go now, and dream of me and our future.” Derek kissed him on the temple and opened the door to the stairwell.

He climbed the stairs to his room, which was difficult with the way Liberty hogged the steps and kept bumping into his legs. When he opened his door, Liberty ran in. Stiles heard a ferocious growl and then screaming. He followed the cat into the room in time to see Liberty, front claws and teeth biting into a woman with long, sun-kissed hair. Liberty’s back claws raked the jerkin protecting the woman’s stomach. The woman had a knife in her hand, and Stiles watched as she stabbed it deeply into Liberty’s side.


	13. Magic

[ ](http://s1097.photobucket.com/user/TJRGlitter/media/Legacy%20of%20the%20Dragons/dividerMagic.png.html)

The shock of Liberty in danger lifted the fog that had surrounded him. The push coming from the woman was almost as bad as Master Gerard’s touch. That realization took less than a heartbeat. He screamed ‘NO!” and pulled magic from his core and flung it at the woman’s head with a power word for fire.

It seemed as if everything was moving in slow motion as he watched Liberty fall limply away from the woman. She backed into the main door of his room, trying to escape the fire engulfing her head, while Liberty landed with a loud thud. Stiles was afraid his cat was already past the point of help. He hurried to her and threaded his fingers into her coat at the same time he heard Derek thunder into the room from behind him, flinging power toward the woman before dropping down next to Stiles.

Stiles began chanting and watched a colorful ribbon of magic enter the large cat. He knew he used more magic than Derek did when he healed Liberty, however, he did not care. With his mind’s eye, he followed the power to the damage. He pulled blood from Liberty’s lungs, forcing it back to where it belonged. Then he began knitting the fine tissue of her lungs together and uniting the airways. Stiles followed the wrongness out, knitting muscle and then skin back to normal, which stopped all of the bleeding. It reminded him of when his mother had darned the holes in his stockings, the large opening shrinking with each stitch of the needle. The difference was, here it was pure power reconnecting the edges of the hole without leaving any seam or scar. The knife had slipped between two of Liberty’s ribs and almost killed her in that short amount of time. Nonetheless, Stiles was determined to save the regal cat once again. When he pulled his power back, Liberty laid breathing deeply as she slept.

He swayed a little once he was finished. “She saved my life,” Stiles explained to Derek.

“I see. Perhaps I should discover why this man was in your room,” Derek averred.

“It was a woman.” Stiles looked at the charred body lying by the door. “I killed her.”

Derek rose and checked the body. “No, she yet lives.”

Stiles stayed at Liberty’s side and watched as Derek made himself comfortable beside the woman. A thread of healing power connected her to Derek as he began a healing chant. He stopped long before he completely healed her. Derek shook her once. She moaned, and her eyes opened.

“Who are you?” Derek demanded.

The woman merely closed her eyes, ignoring the Lord.

Derek shook her again. The woman opened her eyes again, and Stiles suspected that it must have been from the pain of the movement. “By now you must realize I am a sorcerer. I can see to it that you live in terrible pain for many months. On the other hand, I can heal you. I have already healed you enough to talk. This is your last chance, however. Answer my questions truthfully. What is your name?”

“Kate,” she said after a long hesitation.

“Kate, what?” Derek compelled.

The burned woman remained silent.

“I assure you, you will not die, nor will I allow you to recover. How long do you wish to remain in pain? Remember, I am a sorcerer. I will know if you lie, and that will only make it worse for yourself. I suggest you answer me.”

 _Sorcerer’s do not know the truth from a lie,_ Stiles thought. _Do they?_

“Argent,” Kate finally said.

“Why are you here?” Derek pressed.

“To kill the man who stole my mother’s lands,” she answered. Her words were hoarse and broken; however, they were clear enough to understand.

“You are in my apprentice’s room. It is not possible that he has stolen anything, much less land.”

“Gerard’s lands were to be hers. They were stolen from her.” The broken words were a shock to hear.

Derek looked over his shoulder and momentarily locked eyes with Stiles before turning back to Kate. “Who is your mother?” Derek asked. Stiles knew the answer to that as well as Derek did.

“Victoria. She has been wronged.” The raspy voice was slowly sounding worse.

“How many people are here to assist you in killing my apprentice?” Derek inquired.

There was a long pause before she answered. “None.”

Derek scowled. “Did you not hear me when I said that I wanted truthful answers? I am a sorcerer. I know when you lie.”

“Only two,” she croaked out quickly.

“I have more than two in the dungeon that were assisting you. Would you care to try that one again?”

“Will you heal me? If I answer truthfully, will you heal me and take this pain away?” Her broken words were becoming more and more gravelly.

“You wish to barter with me now? I have already told you what I could do for you, yet you try to barter instead of answer. What do you think?”

“I will answer. There were eight of us sent to cause a commotion during the feast so I could slay the thief.”

Derek slowly straightened and then stood. He flung a small thread of power toward Kate and bound her, and then he turned to Stiles.

“I must alert Peter of this. I will return.”

Kate’s breath rasped as she struggled to get enough air into her lungs. Stiles ignored her as he continued to run his fingers through Liberty’s coat. From what he had learned about healing, he did not believe Liberty would remain sleeping for long. She was in good health before she needed this healing, unlike the last time.

It was not long before he heard many feet climbing the stairs from Derek’s sitting room. Eyes merely glanced over Liberty and him, and then Peter, Derek and the twin guards surrounded Kate.

“Does she still live?” Peter asked about the body with the charred head and shoulders.

“Yes. I bound her to protect Stiles while I stepped out,” Derek explained, and then dispelled the binding.

“It is apparent to me that Stiles can protect himself from her,” Peter quipped. “Unfortunately for her, the numbers she gave you and the number of people we have in the cells differed. I think we can arrange for her to have a cell of her own, in sight of those who aided her. It might give them a different aspect on life. Can you prevent her from speaking, Derek?”

Derek kneeled beside her once again. Stiles watched through the forest of legs between Derek and him, while his fingers constantly soothed Liberty. Derek first called another thread of healing, and he reinforced Kate’s pathway to her lungs. Nothing he had done had eased any pain from her burns, only assured she would live. Then he sent a magical gag around her mouth, tied it and broke the end as he pulled his power back.

Derek stood and backed out of the way as Aiden and Ethan lifted Kate to her feet. Stiles could see her mouth open as she tried to scream in pain, but no sound was heard from her. The guards were gentle with her as they half carried and half walked her to the main door in Stiles’ room. When the door closed behind them, Stiles felt sorry for the woman. He knew the stairs would be harder on her than walking across a flat floor. Then he looked at Liberty, remembered the knife sliding into her side, and thought no more about Kate’s pain.

“Please tell me the sting is gone from your marking,” Peter challenged.

“Yes, now it is. All the protection we had around him during the banquet and it was in his own room that he was almost slain.” Derek shook his head.

“I was not almost slain, Liberty was,” Stiles corrected.

“And then Derek saved her for you, yet again?” Peter queried.

“Actually, Stiles saved her. He used more magic than he needed to, but he did it all by himself.”

“Really? Therefore, Stiles must have improved his skills lately.”

“Yes. Perhaps it is time to begin working with him on defensive measures. If he can master that, he can begin using them on the practice field with Chris. Defense takes less energy from a body than offence does.” Derek smirked at Stiles.

Stiles knew he felt weak; however, he did not realize Derek knew that also. He had no desire to move from the soft carpet where he sat beside Liberty. What he really wanted was to sleep off the wine and the magic use.

“Perhaps you should send Scott up to help him get into bed, Derek. I think he could use Scott’s help more than you, right now,” Peter observed with his own smirk.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “You two can return to your own rooms, and I can find my own bed, thank you very much.”

“Do you wish me to send Scott up to help you, Stiles?” Derek asked.

“No. I am fine. Just worried about Liberty.”

Derek reached a hand out to help him up, but Stiles shook his head. “I wish to sit here with her for a while. I will go to bed soon.”

“Come,” Peter said. “Let us leave the lad alone.” His hand was out for Derek to follow him. Derek paused before stepping to the stairwell after Peter.

“Derek? There is one thing. Did you say the truth when you told Kate that you know when someone lies?”

“Sometimes, the things people fear the most are tools the sorcerers use to their advantage. I merely used the facts as I knew them to call her a liar,” Derek explained.

“Oh.” It was all Stiles could say, however, he would have to remember to ponder that later. _Things people fear the most are tools for sorcerers._

“Pleasant dreams, Stiles,” Derek said from the doorway.

“You also, my Lord,” Stiles responded.

Then Derek closed the door behind Peter and himself. Stiles sighed in relief, laid down with his arm around Liberty, and promptly fell asleep.

* * *

He was cold, and his head felt as if his brains were about to burst out through his eye sockets. The agonizing pain intensified with each beat of his heart, and much as he would wish to, he can’t stop either one. His mouth tasted as if a whole mounted troop of soldiers galloped through it, directly after schlepping through a swamp. His stomach made sure it had Stiles attention, also. He was positive a fire was burning inside it, eating away at his insides. Stiles decided that if this were the result of all that wine, he would never drink that much again!

Stiles forced one of his eyes to crack open, only to have knives of pain greet him with the light. He quickly closed it again and rolled onto his back, his hands trying to hold his brains in. Liberty pounced on him, and he sat up with a start, only to have his pain increase ten-fold.

“Oh, Liberty, no,” Stiles said quietly. Even the noise of his own voice hurt. Liberty rubbed her head on Stiles chest, and suddenly he felt her need to go outside added to his own.

He crawled to his feet and looked down. He was still wearing the elaborate suit he had worn last night, only now it was rumpled, and cat hair covered the white material.  _There is nothing I can do about that now,_ he thought.

Liberty was already waiting at the door for him to open it. With each jarring step down the stairs, a lightning bolt of pain flashed behind his eyes. He was sure the stairs had a death wish for him. Several times, he wanted to do nothing more than crumble in a corner and wait until the pain ebbed, but Liberty was persistent. She needed to answer her call of nature. This was the first time that he would have asked Scott to do this for him, but he knew not where he could find his friend. He slowly trudged his way down the steps and followed Liberty outside.

While she looked for the perfect sandy spot in this sand covered land to do her business, Stiles stepped behind one of the short, bush like bunches of coarse-leafed trees to relieve himself. With all of the plants and bushes with thorns on them out here, he was grateful these with the big leaves were closest to the keep. He could swear his back teeth had begun to float, but they seemed to settle once he had watered the bushes sufficiently. Once he put himself back together, he found a tree he could lean against and closed his eyes while he waited on Liberty.

On their way back to the entrance to the keep, Stiles stumbling more than walking, he could smell the food cooking in the kitchen. It did nothing for his sour stomach. As they walked by, Liberty pushed her head against his thigh. That was he noticed two servants cleaning fish and stacking them in baskets. His cat made a quiet sound, and Stiles’ mouth began to water.

Stiles opened his eyes wide and looked at Liberty. The cat looked up at him and licked her chops. He was sure he was going insane, because this was impossible! Just thinking about it made his head hurt even worse.  _She was projecting her thoughts at him!_ This did not make sense! How could she…

Liberty rubbed her head against his leg again, and once again, his mouth began to water. There was no mistaking it this time. Of all the unimaginable things that had happened to him, this was the maddest, by far. It hurt to think, so he did not. He walked over and pulled a large leaf off one of the strange plants found in the area, and approached one of the fish cleaners.

He was about Stiles’ age with dark, curly hair and deep set eyes. His expression made Stiles think that he hated this particular chore. “I have need of that fish you just gutted,” Stiles told him, trying not to grimace from the sound of his own voice.

The servant looked at him as if wondering who he was, and then glanced at the cat. Slowly, he dropped the fish into the large leaf Stiles held in his hand, watching his face the whole time.

“Much gratitude.” Stiles said, and then continued into the keep.

Liberty bumped into him with every step he took, letting Stiles know that she wanted the fish. Stiles ignored her and made his way to the stairs that led up to Derek’s suite. If he had thought it was painful descending, he quickly realized climbing the steps made his head throb even worse.

He would normally tap on the door before entering, but Stiles was not in the mood for niceties. Besides, the sound of his knock would only echo in his already aching head.

Stiles and Liberty stepped through the door. Derek and Deucalion both rose from the table where they had been sitting and looked at Stiles worriedly.

“What happened to you,” Deucalion asked.

“You fell asleep on the floor with the cat, did you not? The next time you are in such shape, it will be Scott’s responsibility to see you find your bed. With no arguments,” Derek told him.

“Pray, not so loud,” Stiles said.

Then he kicked back one of the carpets and set the fish on the floor. “Do not dirty the carpets with the fish, Liberty.” When he stood again, he was sure his head would split open. He squeezed his head with his forearms, trying to push everything back to where it no longer hurt.

“You speak to her like she understands every word you say,” Deucalion stated.

“Not only that, but she is able to push her thoughts into me, now,” Stiles replied between gritted teeth.

Derek stepped up to him and gently tugged his arms away from his head. Stiles slowly opened his eyes and carefully looked into Derek’s.

“You look terrible,” Derek told him, and combed his fingers through Stiles hair, pulled a thread of magic, and said the chant for healing. Stiles felt the benefits immediately. His head stopped pounding and no longer felt as if it were stuffed with lamb’s wool, while his stomach calmed and now felt as if it would accept food. He sighed in relief to be free from the pain.

When Derek pulled his magic and hands away from him, Derek and Stiles both glanced at Liberty. Her head turned to the side, sharp back teeth sawing through the tough skin of the fish to get to the tasty meat under it. Then she ate her fish daintily, keeping everything on the tiles. “Go do your morning constitutions, and then come down to break your fast with us. I believe there is much for you to tell us,” Derek stated.

“There is. Now that it does not hurt to think, just the thought of it…”

Derek cut him off. “Stiles, you reek of last night’s wine.”

Stiles scrubbed his fingers through his hair roughly in frustration. The troop of warriors who had tromped through his mouth in the night must not be pleasant for others to experience, either, Stiles realized. “Apologies,” he told them, and turned to leave from the door he had entered.

“You can go through my suite to your room, Stiles,” Derek told him.

He nodded, keeping his mouth shut, made his way through the suite and up to his own room. There, he poured water from the ewer into the bowl and stripped. When he reached his arms up, he realized it was more than just his breath that stunk. He rinsed his mouth out several times before drinking deeply, and then he washed himself as well as he could. Stiles ran his wet fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame it, before he donned fresh clothes and returned to the suite below.

There were platters of food on the table when he arrived, and they were waiting for him so they could eat. He went to his chair and sat while the other two began filling their plates.

“She is able to push her thoughts at me,” he told them again.

“Tell us after you eat,” Derek told him. “You ate nothing last night. Your body needs food to recover.”

Stiles sighed and filled his plate. One of the platters still had a cover over it. When he pulled it off, he found cherry and apple tarts under it. His eyes widened with excited surprise, and he grabbed one of each.

“Were these at the feast last night, and I missed them? I must thank cook for saving some for us!” Stiles said just before his teeth bit into a mouthful of cherries. “Oh, Ven, these are good!”

Derek and Deucalion chuckled. “It was difficult to leave them untouched while we waited for you to join us,” Derek said, and then he turned to Deucalion. “We could have eaten them all, and Stiles would never have been the wiser.”

“Thank you for saving me some. These are really, like, the best tarts ever!” Stiles exclaimed while waving his arm that held the tasty treat.

It was obvious to Stiles that the two older sorcerers would talk of nothing serious while they ate. All their conversations were light and unimportant. Once they finished, Stiles made a plate of meat for Liberty, placing it on the stone floor beside the fish. When he returned to his seat, Deucalion had pushed all the platters to the other end of the table. Both men sat considering him so intently, Stiles was afraid their looks would bore holes into him.

“What changed, and when did you first notice it?” Deucalion asked.

Stiles studied the table as he thought about that morning, and knew Liberty let him know she wanted out, even though his fogged mind had not noticed it yet. He thought about last night when Deucalion let her run up to his room. He’d had no indication of any thoughts or feelings from her then. He looked up at Deucalion. “It began this morning. She rubbed her head against me, and I thought my bladder would burst. After that, she rubbed her head on me, and my mouth started watering for the fish the servants were cleaning. I detest fish when it is cooked; I certainly would not crave it raw. She stood there licking her lips, and when I did nothing, she rubbed her head against me again. When she did that, my mouth started watering for the fish again. That was when I was sure it was she, pushing her thoughts? Desires? Needs? Whatever they are, she pushed them on me.”

“That was after you healed her, then. Strange, for I have had no awareness of her since I healed her,” Derek said.

“Ah, the difference is, our young apprentice seems to have had a connection to her from the first time he laid eyes on her,” Deucalion added in his lilting accent. “I suspect that Stiles pouring his magic into her strengthened that connection. She can be a fierce ally for the lad.”

“I cannot argue with that logic,” Derek agreed.

Stiles watched Liberty. She turned at one point and met his eyes before going back to her meal. She was so careful when she ate, never making a mess. Even the raw fish had stayed mostly on the large leaf in which Stiles had wrapped it. He was amazed that he could communicate with the beautiful animal. He had thought he was going mad when he could understand her. Shaking his head, he silently laughed at himself. He should have realized it had something to do with magic!

Derek cleared his throat, getting Stiles’ attention back. “Besides having Liberty help keep you safe, we believe it is time for you to learn some defensive magic. There is no chant, so you have never learned it. We form defense with only intent,” Derek explained. “Now, watch.”

Derek pulled a small amount of magic from within, and formed a colorful magic ball in his hand. His other hand slid over the top of the mass of power, and it continued up his arm. The magic flowed over him, quickly covering Derek with a thin web of color. He tied the power off, and turned to show Stiles that it covered him completely.

“This is a shield. For defense, it is not the best. However, it is the easiest to make. Now, you make one.”

Stiles copied what Derek had done. His largest problem was using only a small amount of magic. It took Stiles longer because of that. Nevertheless, he was a success.

“Very good,” Derek complimented. “This is easiest to make and to hold, because you do not have to think about it. This will protect you from a stab wound. Unfortunately, you will still feel the pain from it because this shield will not keep the knife away from your body. In order to do that, you must push the shield outward.”

With that, Derek began pushing the magic away from his body until he had a thin bubble of protection around himself.

“Now make this one,” Derek commanded.

The magic was already there to work with, so this one felt easier for Stiles to construct.

There was a small pile of bones sitting on one of the platters from when they broke their fast, and Deucalion now threw one at Derek. It did not pass through the veil, so it never touched the Lord. “This shield, as you can see, will keep you safer. Nothing can pass through it to harm you. The problem with this barrier is you can do nothing to harm the other person. Neither sword nor knife will pass this shield from either side,” Derek explained.

He allowed his magic bubble to pop and suddenly disappear. “Since you seemed to have no problem with either of those shields, let us try one a little more difficult. You can release your shield.”

Stiles looked at him, confused. “How?”

Derek smiled. “Think it gone. Remember, shields are made from intent.”

Stiles thought it gone, and it popped out of existence.

“This barrier is more difficult to achieve because it can get away from you, if you do not have full control of it. It can also change into either of the previous shields.”

With that said, Derek pulled another thread of magic from his core, made a ball of it in his hand, and spread it up his arm, just as he had the first time. This time, he did not tie off the power. It lay over him like a living thing. Slowly, it pushed a couple finger widths away from him, everywhere except his hands. His magic covered hands seemed to stick out of sleeves from the power that surrounded him.

“This is the best screen. Nothing can touch you, yet you can fight back. As I said before, the difficulty with this one is not allowing it to slip back against you, or becoming a bubble. That is why we cannot tie it off. Now, you make this one.”

Stiles called on his power, and soon had a shield around his body. It was difficult to hold its shape just fingers away from his skin. It slipped and flowed around him. Some places it was closer than it should have been, while other places, it moved further than a couple fingers away.

“You should show him how to safeguard others as long as you have that up,” Deucalion told Derek.

Derek stepped near Deucalion, not directly in front of him, but near him. He waved his arms to the side, and his shield spread like a bulwark to both sides of Derek. “We will work on this one when you have the one you are using now, mastered,” Derek told him.

“Can it take any shape you want?” Stiles asked.

Derek moved his hands up and then out. Magic spread from the ceiling to the opposite walls of the room, making a wall of power. “Any shape, however big you need, as long as you have enough power in reserve.”

“Is there anything that can penetrate that shield?” Stiles asked.

Derek pulled the wall back in, holding only the magic around himself. “Yes. It is made of magic, so magic can penetrate it. If another sorcerer were to attack with wizards’ fire, no matter how grazing a hit your shield took, the fire would follow your power back to your core and kill you instantly. Always keep that in mind when protecting others.”

Stiles’ shield shrunk tight to his body while listening to Derek’s oration.  “Put your fortification back up,” Deucalion prompted.

After much concentration, Stiles was able to push it out from his body. “For something that is supposed to protect, it sounds dangerous,” Stiles shared his concerns.

“It can be; however, so can any weapon,” Derek replied.

“Perhaps he should learn how to repel and stun someone, or a group of people,” Deucalion suggested.

“Yes, give his mind something else to think about while holding onto his shield,” Derek agreed.

That was how Stiles’ morning went, holding his protective shield while they brought more spell books out for him to learn. By the time he left for his arms practice, he decided he was too tired, and would end up with more than his share of bruises for the day. It took only a heartbeat to decide to tie off his magic, and keep a fine barrier against his skin to protect himself from Chris’ practice sword. 

* * *

It was a couple days after that when Derek felt Stiles could hold the safest shield well enough to take it to the practice field. His biggest problem was how much power he poured into it. All morning long, he had been able to keep it up and only a couple fingers away from his body. When he left for arms practice, Derek went with him to remind him to pull back when he used too much magic.

The air was heavy, and seemed to cling to Stiles like a coat. He was already sweating, three steps out of the door. There was even a bite of salt from the sea in the air, although no breeze stirred the gritty dust under their feet.

Chris was not there when they arrived, so Stiles brought out a practice sword to warm up, as Chris had taught him. He was unaccustomed to holding this shield during practice though, and it felt awkward. He went through the motions slowly to settle into a routine. He was still going through the moves when Chris appeared.

Derek and Chris spoke for a few moments before Derek stepped away.

“Are you ready to spar now?”

It was hard concentrating on two things at once, but the warm-up practice helped Stiles to remember how to move, He kept a portion of his thoughts on the shield, while the majority of his mind was on sparring with Chris. Stiles could feel when the tip of Chris’ practice sword pushed against his barrier. He was not slapping him with the flat of the blade as he normally did. Without the barrier, bruises would have covered him in no time. However, with this screen in place, it gave him an extra moment to block and attack. Chris needed no shield to block Stiles’ thrusts, expert swordsman that he was.

“Pull back,” Derek said, loud enough for Stiles to hear and comprehend.

Stiles stepped back, regulated the amount of magic he used back to a thread, and attacked again. Moments later, Derek told him to pull back again.

That was how his practice went. He noticed the colors of his magic fading more and more the longer they sparred. By the time they were through and he dropped his shield, he was so exhausted that all he wanted to do was sleep.

Derek helped support him as he stumbled toward the door. Isaac appeared before they had left the practice field, and Derek explained everything to him. At least, Stiles thought he did. He felt as if he were in a bubble of fog.

It seemed to take a very long time, but somehow, he ended up in Derek’s suite. Liberty almost tripped him when they entered, and Deucalion was there, pouring something into a mug. Stiles groaned. He knew exactly what foul stuff he poured, and for whom it was intended.

They sat him at the table, but he was too tired to sit. Finally, Derek helped him into his bedchamber, pulled his shoes off, slid him into bed and then sat at his back. Liberty jumped up on the bed and lay halfway across their legs.

Stiles was wrapped in Derek’s arms and pull, and he felt contented enough to fly away into pleasant dreams.

“Come on, take a drink. You know it will help,” Derek crooned.

“Sleep will help. Just let me…” The mug tipping at his mouth cut Stiles off. He took a sip of the bitter brew and wanted to spit it out. What he would really love was a large mug of fresh water to wet his mouth and throat after a hot day outside.

“I could see he did not have control of his power while we watched from the balcony,” Deucalion shared. “I thought it would be prudent to steep some herbs for him.”

“Most prudent of you, indeed. Thank you. I thought I saw you and Peter up there. I hoped you would have some brewed for when he returned,” Derek replied and put the mug to Stiles’ mouth again.

“Peter was disappointed with his sword skills. He fears that Stiles cannot protect himself, yet after his display of power with Kate, I do not understand why he worries,” Deucalion shared.

Somehow, Stiles had been able to forget about the woman in his room. “Did I kill her?” he asked.

“I told you last night that you did not kill her. You burned her face and upper body. She is in a lot of pain, and will scar horribly if Peter does not plan to execute her. For now, he is keeping her alive, down within sight of the people who aided her. That way, they know what their fate will be if they continue down the path she put them on,” Derek explained.

“Just put her out of her misery, please. I only wanted to stop her from harming Liberty.”

“This is her punishment for treason. Peter has already judged her, and his decision is firm. If the others decide to carry her torch, I will have to do the same to them. The message will get out that Peter deals with treason swiftly and harshly. It gives people pause to step over that line.”

With that, the mug of nastiness was back at his mouth. Stiles took a couple obligatory sips.

He thought about what Derek had said. Stiles felt bad about what he had done to that woman. Being the source of the fire that charred that woman’s face was a horrible feeling. Now, he learned that Derek may have to do that type of thing for Peter. Just the thought of it made him feel sick, so how must Derek feel? Surely, he has had to do terrible things in the past. Stiles shivered at the thought, and ran his hands consolingly over Derek’s thighs.

“If you two, or should I say three,” Deucalion started as he looked at Liberty, “are comfortable here, I believe I shall go see Peter. I do not think I am needed here any longer, and shall make plans to leave soon after the mating rite.”

“You do not need to leave us, Deuc. You are always welcome here,” Derek told him.

“I know that, Derek. However, I came to help Stiles get in touch with his magic. He is doing a fine job of that now,  _and_ he no longer tries to burn the castle down,” he added with a smile in his voice. “I shall stay for a short time after the ceremony, so the two of you can have a bit of privacy. Then I shall be on my way and return to my own life.”

“I will be sorry to see you leave,” Stiles told him. “You have helped me much.”

“You have helped both of us, Deucalion. For that, you will always have my gratitude,” Derek expressed.

“Let us not all get weepy-eyed now. I shall be here another fortnight anyway. However, I must give Peter some notice, since it was he that sent for me. Drink the tea, eat and sleep, Stiles. You will be back to your old self tomorrow.” Deucalion then left the room.

Then the dreaded mug was back to his lips. Stiles took the mug and drank the nastiness down, grimacing with each swallow. Derek kissed the top of his head and slipped out of bed. “Sleep. I will return when evening meal arrives.”

By the time his head hit the pillow, Stiles was asleep.

* * *

Derek woke him and again slid behind him on the bed. Feeling the pull was a pleasant way to awaken. Derek kissed his ear, sending shivers of desire up Stiles’ spine.  _Soon,_ he told himself.

There was a small table with food, and from the scent hanging in the air, more tea. “You know, do you not, that you did very well today? You may have used too much magic, which you are paying for now. However, you were able to hold your shield away from your skin and not allow it to bubble,” Derek praised.

“Will I ever learn to control small amounts?” Stiles lamented.

“You need to remember that when I started out, I had very little power to work with. It was easy to pull a mere thread, for there was not much more than that to work with. I would hate to think what it would have been like if I had started out with as much power as I have now, and try to learn to grasp a mere thread. Yet, that is what you are doing. Be patient with yourself, for you really are doing quite well.”

Derek fed him bites of food between sips of tea. “I am not so tired that I cannot feed myself,” Stiles said.

“I am very aware of that. It has been so long since I have been able to pamper and feed you, I thought to take advantage of Deucalion spending time with Peter.”

“Is he really going to leave us?” Stiles asked.

“Peter will allow him to leave soon after our ceremony. I am grateful he was here when he was, though. Were it not for him, I surely would have lost you,” Derek expressed, holding another juicy morsel in front of Stiles’ mouth.

They were silent for a while as they ate, before Stiles spoke again. “Do you think he will come back to visit?”

“I hope he will. We shall have to be sure to invite him,” Derek responded.

They ate more, until Stiles could not swallow another bite. He was falling asleep against Derek’s chest, wrapped in his protection and pull. Derek jostled him.

“Allow me to have these dishes removed,” Derek told him, and those words were the last he heard before sleep held him.

* * *

Stiles knew he was dreaming. They were alone and kissing, the pull was enticing Stiles as much as the warm body above him. He pulled Derek closer, their bodies rubbing in all the right spots. Kisses turned into nibbles down Stiles jaw and neck that had him panting. When the nibbling found a spot just below his ear, Stiles moaned in pleasure, thrusting his hips into the body above him.

He touched that body, felt hard muscles under the clothing that covered it. Stiles ran his fingers through the soft hair on Derek’s head, and pulled him back into another kiss. Then Derek’s front tooth nicked his lip.

Stiles opened his eyes with a jerk. He woke to find it was not a dream.

He was under the covers of Derek’s bed with the duvet pushed down to his waist. Derek was on top of the covers, still wearing the same clothes he had worn all day. He did not understand _why_ Derek was on top of him. However, Derek was still asleep, touching his face, caressing him, while he was asleep. Derek’s hand slipped between them and was obviously seeking the one thing Stiles had to protect, whether he wanted to or not.

He grabbed Derek’s arm, trying to pull it away. Unfortunately, Derek was stronger than Stiles. “Derek! Stop! We must wait!” Stiles cried urgently while trying to wiggle away from the man above him.

Yet Derek slept on, holding Stiles, and not allowing him to escape. As much as he wanted this, Stiles knew he needed to stop Derek.

“Master! Please! Stop!!”


	14. Complications

[ ](http://s1097.photobucket.com/user/TJRGlitter/media/Legacy%20of%20the%20Dragons/dividerComplications.png.html)

Derek’s eyes snapped open. The next thing Stiles knew, Derek flew off the bed and rubbed the marking on his arm.

As Stiles slowly sat up, they watched each other’s every move in the low light of the embers still burning in the hearth. When Stiles slipped out of bed to approach Derek, the other man backed away. Stiles wondered if he looked as confused and worried as Derek did.

“Your marking,” Derek said.

Stiles raised his arm and looked at the colorful flame that covered the sword in the dim light. “It looks the same, as far as I can tell,” Stiles offered.

Derek huffed out a sigh then finally approached him. “May I see?” he asked.

Derek said the magic word for fire, and light hovered over his hand. He gently lifted Stiles’ arm higher so he could study the ink. He ran his fingers over the bright colors, assuring himself that they were unchanged. Then he gazed into Stiles’ eyes and set a hand to where his shoulder and neck joined. “I am so sorry. Had it not been for the burn of my marking, I might not have awakened. I was so sure it was nothing more than a beautiful dream.” He released Stiles and the small ball of fire he used for light. Then he turned, stepping away.

Stiles watched as the other man paced back and forth. “I still do not understand. Why was I still in your bed?” Stiles asked.

“I could not wake you.” Derek stopped at one of the tall, narrow windows in his room, and he either stared out into the dark, or he gazed back at the room from the reflection in the glass. Stiles did not know which. “I was so tired, and I thought that it would be safe for me to sleep on top of the covers. I could see no harm in that.” He hung his head and shook it. “How wrong I was with that thought.”

“That does not make sense. I am a light sleeper,” Stiles stated.

“I know that. I believe I have never slept so soundly, either,” Derek averred. Then his head popped up, and he turned back to Stiles.

“We have set the date for our mating rite. Could this be Chaos striving to prevent peace and prosperity?” Derek mused.

“I only know that the dream I had, and I knew it was only a dream, was after we wed. It was everything I ever hoped it could be, wrapped in your arms and pull,” Stiles told him.

Derek’s voice was rougher when he spoke. “Yes, we shared that same dream.”

He then turned away. “You must go up to your room. Obviously, you can spend no more time in my bed.”

Stiles was disappointed, however he understood Derek’s thoughts. He looked around the room. “Where is Liberty?”

Derek glanced around, and then opened the door to his office. Liberty must have been sleeping soundly on the carpets near the hearth. Her head rose up and turned back toward the now open door to Derek’s sleeping quarters. She languidly rose and stretched out her limbs. Then she slinked up to Stiles, pushing her head against his thigh. Immediately, his bladder felt full.

“Okay, Liberty. Let me take you outside,” Stiles said.

“I will see you in the morning,” Derek said.

Stiles turned and gazed longingly at Derek, until Liberty head butted him again. “Morning, then,” Stiles replied, and opened the door to take Liberty outside.

* * *

He knew he was dreaming, for things such as this did not happen in real life. Stiles was flying. No, not with wings, nor was he carried by the beasts of the air, but he soared through the sky, all the same. He sped across the night heavens, seeing glimpses of water sparkling below him and the shimmering stars above, yet he felt no wind in his face.

Like most dreams, he had no control. He could not change his course or speed, so he observed, hoping to discover what this dream would tell him.

He spotted snowcapped mountains ahead of him, reflecting the bright stars in the cold, clear night. It struck him then that he, himself, was not cold. He decided he was not hot, either. It was almost as if he were part of the night.

A blue-scaled dragon trumpeted into the open skies at a cave opening near the top of one of the largest mountains. His wings were open wide, and they sparkled as if they were made of the stars themselves. He was a glorious beast to see! Yes, he. Stiles knew it was a drake, and the trumpeting sounds he made, Stiles could almost understand.

The imposing beast seemed to spot Stiles, and quieted, folding his wings tight to his back. He turned, and strode into the large opening that led into the mountain.

Stiles felt as if he had seen this all before. Yet, that was impossible. While he had lived near snowcapped mountains for most of his life, they were not these mountains. The largest beasts of the sky he had ever seen were the eagles that nested high up on the cliffs. He mentally shook his head and followed the dragon into his lair.

The dragon was a graceful beast. His movements were sure and purposeful. He never looked behind himself toward Stiles, yet Stiles was positive the creature knew he was there.

The cave was dark, although Stiles could clearly see his surroundings. The sides were smooth and shiny and very much like black glass. He touched one, felt its cool finish, and thought they may have been made of obsidian.

Stiles continued to follow the dragon. After a while, the smooth sides and ground turned into stone floors and walls. There were many doors down this corridor. The dragon shimmered, and suddenly, a man with light brown hair walked naked before him. He remembered Derek’s spell of glamour and wondered which of these images were real, the man or the dragon.

The naked man stepped into one of the rooms, and emerged wearing a long, blue robe. _I have seen this place before,_ Stiles thought. He continued following the man to a large anteroom, where a woman sat. She was younger than the man was; however, she seemed eternal at the same time.

“Did he come to your calling?” the woman asked.

“He did. I was correct in my belief that his life had not winked out.”

The man then searched the room, and his eyes found and held Stiles’. “The fates are aligning, and time is short. Death and destruction are already making plans to find their way to this land. Two key people are missing for life to continue, as we know it. You are one of them. I have searched for you, yet you somehow stay hidden from me. Therefore, Zdzislaw, you must make your way here, where I can unleash your powers.”

Stiles studied the man. He had light grey eyes and a kind face. How a dragon man would have a kind face, he had no idea. They were nearly the same height, although the man had more mass than Stiles.

The woman on the other hand, was smaller. She had smooth, bronze skin, with large, dark brown eyes. He was grateful Derek had not seen her before he had met Stiles. He was sure Derek would never have looked at him after seeing her beauty.

“Son! Are you listening to me?” the drake asked.

Stiles eyes snapped back to the man. “Are you talking to me?” Stiles asked.

"Yes! Zdzislaw, you _must_ find your way here, or the lands themselves will dissolve under the pestilence. I had lost all hope when I thought you were traveling beyond life. However, you are alive, as is Claudia. There is still hope to save our lands.”

Stiles began to panic from the dragon’s speech. It put him too much in mind of the legacy. Suddenly, he found himself outside, flying quickly over the lands. He could make out little more than he had on the way to the mountains.

Idly, he wondered if Chaos was behind this dream, also.

He soon found himself floating over his bed. His body lay wrapped around a cat’s and under the blankets. He sank down, filling his body, and slept.

* * *

Stiles woke the following morning, and thought of the way he had awakened in Derek’s bed. His face warmed as he remembered how close they had come to destroying the land. Thinking those last three words spiked a feeling in Stiles. He felt as if he were forgetting something, however, try as he might, he did not know what it was.

He washed himself, dressed, and took Liberty outside to do her morning business. When she was finished and they were returning to the keep, she again rubbed her head against Stiles to let him know she wanted fish. Stiles did not like the fact that his mouth watered for something he found disgusting. Just like the day before, he grabbed a large leaf and approached the same servant as yesterday.

“I have need of another fish,” Stiles said.

The servant looked up at Stiles and then the cat. “You know I am cleaning these for first meal, do you not?”

“This is for first meal. Lord Derek knows of this, and if anyone receives any grief, it will be me, not you,” Stiles assured the man.

“May I have your name, so I can tell Cook?” the servant asked.

“I am Stiles, Lord Derek’s apprentice. May I have your name to tell the cook of your assistance?”

The man looked very nervous then, dropping his blue-green eyes as if he had stepped over a line he should not have. “Please, sir. Take a fish. However, do not bring attention to me. Please.”

“Will you tell me your name, so I know what to call you when we speak?” Stiles asked.

“Matt, sir. I am called Matt.”

“It is good to meet you, Matt. I had no intention of causing you trouble. My only thoughts were to let the cook know that you help me out, and that you are a good worker.”

“I have not been here overlong. I do not know how things are here. Yet where I come from, any attention from those above me was not good. So I ask…”

“I will say nothing,” Stiles said, cutting Matt off, “even though I am sure nothing bad would follow.”

Liberty rubbed her head into Stiles’ thigh again, causing his mouth to water. He held out his leaf, and Matt selected a nice, plump fish from the side of his basket and dropped it into the leaf.

“Many thanks, Matt. I shall most likely see you tomorrow.” Stiles smiled and nodded at the other man.

“Yes, sir,” Matt responded quietly. His deep-set eyes seemed to study Stiles until they dropped back to the fish he was gutting.

Stiles wondered what Matt’s past had entailed as Liberty and he made their way to Derek’s suite. He tapped and then opened the door, Liberty sliding past his legs before him.

Derek stood near the table. Stiles scanned the room as he flipped back a piece of carpet to set the leaf of fish down.

“Where is Deucalion?”

“He is breaking his fast with Peter.” Derek stepped close to Stiles, gazing into his eyes much like a starving man beholding a feast.

Stiles could not help himself. He ran his hand over the short beard Derek now wore. He remembered the feel of it against his face from last night, and wished they could have continued what they had begun. The spike of the pull from that touch did nothing to quell that feeling. Derek had shut his eyes with that touch, and his expression was something between pain and ecstasy.

He took a step back, and opened his eyes. “We should break our fasts. Today, we shall go down to the silversmith and have him start our rings,” Derek said.

 _Rings! Something to bind us together for all the days of our lives!_ Stiles still found it difficult to believe that Derek would one day be his. However, going to a silversmith to make rings? That made it real! He jumped at Derek and wrapped his arms around him, while Derek stumbled back a step. Then, his arms wrapped around Stiles. Between the pull, his excitement, and Stiles’ outright love for Derek, he found the other man’s mouth with his own. The kiss was much shorter than Stiles wanted. Derek gently pushed him away, even though the look on his face said he did not want to.

“After last night, we must not. Chaos has its eyes on us, and we have much to lose if it wins,” Derek said quietly.

While disappointment filled Stiles, he had to agree with the other man. Derek went to the table and found his seat. Stiles could do nothing less than follow his mate’s example.

As they broke their fasts, Stiles shared with Derek what he had learned about the fish cleaner, Matt. “Do you know where he came from to have been treated so harshly? Now that I think of it, he did not want ‘Cook’s’ attention brought on him. ‘Cook’, not the cooks. Wherever it was, they must have had only one cook.”

Derek’s face filled with confusion. “All new servants come here through me. I have brought no one back recently enough for them to fear being brought to the cook’s attention. Does he have a push?”

“No? The keep is a refreshing place, normally. Except when Peter throws a banquet for me. Then, it is a different story, altogether. No longer refreshing then. Nope, not refreshing at all. In fact, downright uncomfortable,” Stiles exclaimed, his hands helped to punctuate his statement.

Derek merely looked thoughtful as they ate after that. Shortly before they finished, there was a tap at the door, and Deucalion entered.

“Peter tells me you are taking a carriage into town this morning. There are some things I would like to purchase before I leave. Would you mind if I came along?” Deucalion asked. His strange accent was still as strong as the day he had arrived.

Derek took a last bite and pushed his plate away. “I would like that. Apparently, we have a new servant down in the kitchen. Perhaps you will be able to help me figure out where he came from on the way.”

“A new servant? Are you sure?” Deucalion asked.

“He is the one that has been giving fish to Stiles for Liberty. He did not want Stiles to bring attention to him before the cook. I suspect he does not belong here. Perhaps he is a runaway,” Derek thought aloud.

Just then, Liberty started retching. All three of the sorcerers hurried to her side. What she expelled did not look like fish.

“Mistletoe,” Deucalion stated.

Derek knelt beside her at the same time as Stiles. “Let me, Derek. Please,” Stiles said. Just then, Liberty put her paw on Stiles knee.

“Go ahead. I will guide you if you are unsure,” Derek told him.

“Thank you.” Stiles threaded his fingers through her fur. He closed his eyes and then began the chant of healing. Pulling power from his core, he guided the colorful flow of magic toward the ‘wrongness’ under her skin. His mind’s eye traveled with that power and found damage spreading through his beautiful cat. He had no idea how to stop it.

Suddenly, Derek’s magic joined his, and he could hear his voice clearly, although it sounded far away. “Neutralize it like this.”

Stiles watched as Derek’s magic changed the poison in Liberty’s blood. After showing him what to do, Derek had pulled back and allowed Stiles to heal Liberty by himself. He understood what he had to do. Pouring magic into the poison, Stiles changed its composition. Then he chased the damage the poison was already causing, and he reversed it. Colorful magic spread, checking for more damage as it healed the multitude of sores already beginning in Liberty’s stomach. He stopped the healing mantra, and then he filled hands full of magic to clean Liberty’s coat from what she had disgorged, before he pulled his power back completely.

“You are really very good at that,” Deucalion said. “Of course, Derek is a very good teacher. Healing always was one of his strong points.”

Derek picked Liberty up from the mess that surrounded her and set her on the bearskin rug near the hearth. She lay as if she were sleeping when he set her down, however her eyes remained open and focused on Stiles.

“Are you strong enough to find this servant who gave you the fish?” Derek asked, hands on his hips.

Stiles did not feel as weak as he had the last time he had healed her. “Yes, I feel fine,” he said, continuing once he stood up. “Why is that, anyway? The last time, all I wanted to do was sleep after I healed her.”

“You used less magic. You did not pour everything you had into her this time. Also, you were not in your cups this time as you were the last,” Derek told him.

“Oh,” he said. He had forgotten about the wine. He had thought no further than healing Liberty. _Liberty!_ “Deucalion, pray, stay with Liberty until we return,” Stiles asked.

“You do not need to ask that of me, Stiles. I will stay by her side. I will also have someone clean up in here while you find this mysterious servant.”

“Much gratitude, Deucalion.”

Stiles then glanced at Liberty before looking up at Derek. “I am ready,” he said.

They made their way out to where Stiles saw the servants gutting fish. Only one servant was there. He was older than Stiles, although not as old as his weapons master, Chris. He was muscular, with brown hair and a mustache.

Derek looked at Stiles questioningly. However, Stiles could only shake his head ‘no’.

“Where is the other servant who was here this morning?” Derek asked.

The man stopped what he was doing and gave Derek his full attention. “My Lord. He left just moments after the young man here stepped inside the keep with his cat.”

“Left? What do you mean, left?” Derek asked.

“He rose and walked off in that direction,” the servant pointed off to the edge of the castle. “I thought he may have had to relieve himself at the time. However, he never returned, my Lord.”

“How long has he been here?” Derek asked.

“Yesterday morning was the first time I ever laid eyes upon him, my Lord,” the servant said.

“Do you know where his quarters are?”

“No, my Lord. I have only seen him out here gutting fish. I did not even see him while the rest of us ate.”

Derek’s expression told Stiles he was at a loss. After a moment, he thanked the servant and nodded his head toward the kitchen. Stiles followed him in that direction. Stepping inside, he approached one of the cooks stirring something in a large kettle.

“Erica, you know everyone from the kitchen, do you not?” Derek asked.

 _Erica!_ Stiles had not recognized her at first, but once Derek said her name, he did. This girl had kept his goblet full of wine at the banquet.

“Yes, my Lord. Is there someone you are looking for?” she asked.

“There is. Do you know where I might find Matt? He was gutting fish a short time ago.”

“There is no one here by that name, my Lord. It is Alexander who guts the fish,” she told him.

“I am under the impression this servant is new, Erica.”

“There have been no new servants in the kitchen in a long while. Is it possible that he is one of the fishermen?” she asked, just as a large man brought in an armful of wood for the stove. “Boyd knows just about everyone who serves here. Boyd, do you know of any servant named Matt?”

“There is no one here by that name,” he answered after dropping his load in the woodbin. It was then that he noticed Derek. “My Lord,” he said with a short bow. He then knelt and began tossing wood into the large iron stove.

“Describe him, Stiles,” Derek requested once Boyd had finished.

“Do you know of anyone new that is about my age, has dark, curly hair and deep set eyes?”

Boyd stood and began rubbing his chin. He seemed to be deep in thought. “Yesterday morning, I saw someone who fits that description leaving the keep. However, he did not look like a servant. He was dressed much too fine to be a servant, in his cream colored clothes.”

“Which direction did he go?” Derek demanded.

“He was headed toward the main gates when I saw him,” Boyd responded.

“Come on,” Derek said to Stiles as he hurried from the kitchen.

They ran all the way to the gates. Derek seemed barely winded when they got there, while Stiles was holding a stitch in his side, bent over and gasping for breath. There were already many people traveling in and out of the gates; some on foot, some on wagons filled with items for the keep, some on fine horses.

A young guard came to attention when he spotted Derek. “My Lord, how may I assist you?” he asked.

“I am looking for a young man with curly, dark hair and deep set eyes. He may have recently gone out through this gate,” Derek told him.

Stiles finally caught his breath enough to stand up. The guard’s muscular arms bulged as he gripped the hilt of the sword at his side. He was slightly shorter than Stiles, his dark brown hair was tied in a queue, and his green eyes were bright and observant.

“Just a short while ago, a young man left that fit your description. I saw him climb into one of the liveries they rent out in town. I could see another person in the carriage when he entered. However, I could not tell if it was a man or a woman. When they left, they headed down toward the market and docks,” the guard told him.

Derek looked worried. “My gratitude for your sharp eyes,” he said to the guard.

“My Lord, should I send men down to find him?”

“No, as busy as it is here, the docks and market place will be crawling with people by now. If you see him returning, detain him for me,” Derek told him.

“Yes, my Lord,” the guard told him and sharply snapped to attention.

Derek turned back to Stiles. “Come, we should check on Liberty.”

Stiles merely nodded, winded as he was, and then he walked beside his Lord and mate as they returned to Derek’s suite. They stepped into his office, to find it already cleaned up. Liberty rose when they entered, and rubbed her head against Stiles thigh. Her feelings were clearer than before. She was able to convey her gratitude for healing her quite clearly. Stiles got down on his knees and hugged his cat, and then loosened his grip and ran his fingers through her fur. Behind him, he could hear Deucalion and Derek talking.

“He left the keep before he could catch him,” Derek said.

“I cannot picture any reason to attack Liberty unless they are trying to get to Stiles. You know, it might not be a bad idea to get Stiles a bodyguard,” Deucalion replied.

There was a long pause where Stiles could feel both sets of their eyes on his back before Derek agreed. “Maybe I should ask Chris to be his personal valet until the ceremony. I shall ask him this afternoon when Stiles goes for arms practice.”

The thought of Chris around all the time did not sound like fun to Stiles, though. Yet, if it guaranteed Liberty’s safety, he would put up with it.

“I think that would be a very good idea. Although, why only until the ceremony?” Deucalion asked.

“It is possible Chaos may have been interfering with Stiles and me, and this may be part of it.”

 _May have been? Ha!_ Stiles thought.

“I never thought of that,” Deucalion shared.

“Well, I suppose we should get the tomes out for Stiles again,” Derek sighed.

“Why? Are you not going to the silversmith? I thought you wanted spell-bound rings.”

“One of the guards saw a young man who fit the description of this ‘Matt’. He was heading toward the market in a carriage. Maybe we should stay here until that problem is cleared up,” Derek said.

“I do not know about you, but I believe three sorcerers can pretty much protect themselves. I still need to go down there to buy some things before I leave,” Derek told him.

“And Liberty?” Derek asked.

“I can take her up to my room when we leave,” Stiles chimed in. “She will not be bothered there.”

Derek sighed thoughtfully. “Maybe you are right. There is not much time for us to finish all the things we need to do. Fine. Stiles, does she need to go outside first?” Derek asked.

Just then, Liberty rubbed her head against Stiles chest. Much to Stiles’ amazement, it seemed that she understood Derek’s question. “No, she only wishes to rest,” Stiles answered.

“Then let us go. I am sure Jackson has been waiting on us long enough.”

Stiles picked Liberty up and held her like a small child with her head over his shoulder, as he took her up to his room. Derek followed him up with a bowl of water. Stiles laid her on his bed, and she found the spot where she wanted to lay - on Stiles' pillow. “You be good, Liberty. We will return before long,” Stiles crooned while scratching her neck. Derek set her water down, and Stiles closed the door behind them when Derek and he left.

It was not long before Deucalion, Derek and Stiles were climbing into the royal carriage. Jackson looked as calm as ever, even though Stiles knew he had waited on them a long time. It was a quick trip into town. The whole time, Stiles stared out the window and basked in Derek’s pull, while Derek and Deucalion talked.

Stiles knew they were worried about leaving the keep, even though three sorcerers outranked a troupe of armed men when it came to power. Therefore, Stiles tried to keep his mind on the future and the spell they would use on the rings.

It was not as if he would forget the spell. No, that would never happen. He had studied it in the scrolls, and then Derek and he had practiced melding their powers so Stiles would know the spell inside out. However, that spell was for the rings they would wear once they officially united. Stiles was excited, as well as worried. Yes, marriage to a lord was more than Stiles could have ever dreamed would transpire in his lifetime.

Nevertheless, what would happen if Derek ever tired of him? He could be a little excitable at times, causing his mouth to run and his hands to fly everywhere. Master Garrison hated that, and he had constantly reprimanded Stiles. Sure, he was better at keeping his mouth shut and hands clasped together than before, but there were times he had to bite his tongue until it bled!

Besides, had not Derek already tried to escape this joining by blaming the pull on his elven blood?

Stiles thoughts began spiraling around and around, each thought going darker and bleaker than the one before.

The pull intensified, and Stiles looked down and saw Derek’s hand on his leg. “Stiles, are you feeling all right?” Derek asked.

Suddenly, all the doom and gloom disappeared, and he was on his way to have rings made, to bind him to Derek. All was well in the world, and he had no idea where all the things that had been floating through his head had come from. He smiled as he gazed into his Lord and Master’s eyes. “I am fine now. Perfect even. I cannot picture ever being better. Except perhaps after the ceremony is already over. And we were alone. After the ceremony, that is. I do not mean now. Deucalion is fine here with us now. Besides, we are in town. We cannot be alone in town; there are too many people.” Stiles hands flew to punctuate his words, and he watched his mate’s eyes warm as his mouth twitched with the effort it took to keep a grin away.

“We are here, if you are ready to see to our rings,” Derek told him.

Jackson climbed down and opened the door to the carriage. Derek stepped out first, followed by Stiles and then Deucalion.

“If I do not find you here after I make my purchases, I will make my own way back to the keep,” Deucalion told them.

“We can wait for you. Stiles and I can stroll through the shops. Just, do not take so long as to make Chris angry with Stiles for showing up late,” Derek replied.

“Nay, I shall be done long before noon meal.”

They waved at Deucalion as he left. Stiles realized it was a beautiful morning. As it rose, the sun was burning off the clouds in the sky. Birds flew overhead, making the town even noisier than the people and horses did.

They walked down one of the streets that were too narrow for carriages. It appeared is if the sun had not risen yet, as close as the buildings were. A dog roamed the street ahead of them, sniffing and peeing at every corner.

They finally arrived at the silversmith’s shop. It was a small, stone building with a window in the front. Through that window, Stiles could see the many types of things the silversmith made to sell. There was jewelry, small knives with intricate designs on the blades, fancy tinderboxes and eating utensils to name a few.

The door was open, and Stiles followed Derek in. The man inside the place seemed as large as the shop was small. He looked like a mountain, with all the hills of his muscles flexing as he worked over whatever he was doing. When he straightened, small dark eyes looked out from their deep recesses at them. Then he smiled, and his whole appearance changed. He looked like a person.

“My Lord! What brings you down to the dregs of this city?” he asked.

“Kincaid, I would like you to meet my apprentice, Stiles. Stiles, this is Kincaid, the best silversmith in the land,” Derek said in introduction.

“It is good to meet you, Stiles,” Kincaid said and clasped arms with him.

The hand that clasped Stiles arm seemed as big as one of the hams the cooks served, and Stiles felt as if he were gripping a tree trunk! “Well met,” Stiles said, nervously.

“I recognize the ring your apprentice wears. I helped you make that a few summers ago. Are you here to make another?” Kincaid asked Derek.

“Actually, we are here for some very special rings. Stiles is my intended. Our ceremony is to be at the next full moon. Do you think you can help us out with the rings?” Derek asked.

Stiles wondered why Derek asked, when he could just as easily order someone to do as he wished. However, Stiles knew that was a large part of Derek’s magnetism. He even asked slaves if they wished to leave their homes to go to the keep. Besides, people were more apt to do a nicer job at what they did with compliments and asking, rather than insults and demands. Obviously, Derek knew how to handle people better than Stiles.

“I will put all my other orders aside, my Lord. What could possibly be more important than hand-tying rings?” Kincaid said with an easy smile.

“Ahh, perhaps you volunteer to put your other work aside too quickly. For these rings, we need virgin silver. Silver that has never been used for anything else before. Will you be able to get your hands on any before the full moon?” Derek asked.

Kincaid smirked. “You think I would not have everything I might possibly need to make my wares here?” He walked into the back, and returned with two pieces. One looked like crystal silver nested in white crystals, and the other looked more like the movement of water had rounded it into a nugget. “There are different compositions of silver that come fresh out of the ground. Will either of these work?”

 

 

 

 

[ ](http://s1097.photobucket.com/user/TJRGlitter/media/Legacy%20of%20the%20Dragons/rlb24.jpg.html) [ ](http://s1097.photobucket.com/user/TJRGlitter/media/Legacy%20of%20the%20Dragons/EB0312PLATAL4D-1.jpg.html)

Stiles stood beside Derek to look at the pieces, and thought the one that looked like crystals would be the one Derek would pick. They looked so pure and shiny. However, it was the nugget he plucked from Kincaid’s hand and studied closely. Then his gaze caught Kincaid’s eyes. “I know what this is. This silver will not bend once it is cool. How did you come by this? And, can you work it?” Derek asked.

“Yea, I can work it. Why would I have it around if I could not? I must say, I am impressed that you know what it is,” Kincaid told him.

Derek merely raised an eyebrow in response before he went on to explain the process he would have to go through to make the rings the way he wanted them. “You will need a place that can tolerate high temperatures to do your work. Stiles and I will fire them, and they must both be done together. Every drop of the silver we melt must go into the rings.” Then Derek pulled a scrap of vellum from his jacket and handed it to Kincaid. “While they are still hot enough, this symbol must be etched into them.”

Kincaid studied the symbol carefully. Then he took a nail and hung the scrap on a post near his workstation. “Stiles, you wear that ring on your middle finger. On which fingers will you wear these?” he asked.

“We will both wear them on our heart fingers,” Derek told him.

Kincaid then pull out a small box filled with thin bands. “Find the ones that fit you the best.”

They went through the rings until they both had one that went over the knuckle without falling off when they shook their hands. Kincaid took them and slid them over the finger-like extension of his little anvil connected to his workbench. He scribed a line for each of them.

Then he cleared everything away, except the tools he would need. When he was done, he looked at Derek. “I will need my apprentice to help with this. He is good at his work, and he has a steady hand. I ask that you explain your magic to him, so that he is not afraid,” Kincaid requested.

Derek nodded, and the silversmith stepped into the back once again. He returned shortly with a lad a bit younger than Stiles. “Lord Derek, Mister Stiles, this is my apprentice, Garrett. Garrett, this is the royal sorcerer and his apprentice. He is going to explain a job to you, and you are going to make me proud by assisting me.”

Stiles began wandering around the small shop, picking up items to look at, and setting them back down. He heard Derek speaking to the lad; however, he was not paying attention to them. His thoughts were taking him down dark paths again, and he did not know if his worries were founded or not. He only knew that if Derek put him aside, he would be devastated. Seriously, he would not wish to continue without him.

“Are you ready to begin, Stiles?” Derek asked while laying a hand on Stiles’ shoulder.

Just like earlier, Derek’s touch snapped him out of his melancholy. Whether it was his touch, or the increased pull, he did not know.

He also did not understand what was going on with his head today. For all the things he had gone through, he could not remember his thoughts ever becoming so bleak. He would have to talk to Derek about this later. For now, though, he was excited about binding the rings.

“Yes, I am ready. Always ready Stiles, here. Ready as I will ever be. Ready willing and able.” Stiles almost knocked over a knife on display from one of his hands windmilling around him. Then he noticed the strange looks Kincaid and Garrett gave him, and he clasped his hands together in front of him and bit his tongue. Derek’s expression was filled with love, though.

He took his place beside Derek while Kincaid held the silver nugget in tongs. Garrett stood behind Kincaid with another set of tongs, waiting for his master to divide the silver into two pieces. Derek locked eyes with Stiles, and nodded. It was time.

Stiles reached deep inside himself for his pool of power. He focused on the evasive stuff, and pulled a mere thread of it with his mind. He let it flow through him, past him, outside him. Carefully, he blended it with the thread of magic coming from Derek. The combined colors almost brought tears to his eyes; they were so blazingly vibrant. Together, Derek and he began the chant for the controlled fire they had to make.

Kincaid held the silver in the fire, and Stiles watched as it slowly changed from silver, to red, to almost transparent. That was when Kincaid pulled it away from the fire and began hammering it on a small anvil. Stiles could not focus on what the silversmith did without losing control of the fire, so he kept his mind and his eyes where they belonged. The chant quietly slipped through his lips without thought, and to Stiles ears, when joined with Derek’s voice, it sounded like music.

When the hammered silver was stuck back into the fire, they changed the mantra slightly. With this change, they began instilling the binding spell. They would be bound mates. Bound for life. Stiles repeated the ancient words, pouring his heart into them, binding the spell with his love for Derek.

Soon, all outside things fell away. The fire’s heat was not there, he was not bored from merely standing and repeating a spell, even Derek’s pull was gone. He and the magic were one. Derek was twined through him, a part of him that he could find neither where he started nor where Derek ended. Stiles had no idea of time. However, once Kincaid split the silver into two pieces, the chant changed once again.

With this spell, they poured power into the rings, making them talismans in time of need. One part or the other was always in their fire, immersed in the stream of magic and welded into the silver by the fire, united and sealed with Derek and his essence. These rings would know them, for they were a part of them.

Derek conveyed to him it was time to pull back, that the rings were finished. It was not that he told Stiles anything, it was more like knowing that the rain fell on him, or that the knife was sharp. Derek was still a part of Stiles, and Stiles shuddered at the thought of untangling himself from him. However, he knew it had to be done.

As he pulled his magic back, the world returned to focus. Color still filled the thread of his power, although it was a very bland example of what it had looked like while blended with Derek’s magic. His back ached, his feet hurt, and his shoulders were stiff. He put his hands on his hips and stretched back until his spine popped. Then he leaned over to look at the final creations.

The bands appeared as if they would be as smooth as silk, and they shone brighter than any gem. The symbol Derek had him instill was a solid black outline on them. “Perfect,” Derek told Kincaid.

“Much gratitude. You know, these rings will never tarnish, do you not?”

“Yes. It is also the best type of silver to absorb a spell,” Derek informed.

“Platinum silver?” a voice asked from the door.

Stiles and Derek both turned to see Deucalion standing behind them.

“You finished your shopping already, Deucalion?” Derek asked.

“Actually, I never started. As I was walking down the main path, I saw Jennifer. I felt it wise to return here and keep an eye on your backs.”

Derek looked confused for a moment, and then worry filled his expression. “Jennifer Blake, the dark sorcerer?” Derek asked.

“Yes,” Deucalion told him simply.


	15. Derek

 

[ ](http://s1097.photobucket.com/user/TJRGlitter/media/Legacy%20of%20the%20Dragons/dividerReunitedBrothers.png.html)

After learning there was a dark sorcerer in town, Stiles stood back to watch and listen. One thing he had noticed was the silversmith’s helper, Garrett, had disappeared into the back room as soon as his part in making the rings had finished. Another thing was that Kincaid looked nervous.

“I do not mean to be listening to your conversation, my Lord. However, I must ask, will this mean trouble for me?” Kincaid asked as he wrapped each ring in pieces of fine cloth. 

“No, if Jennifer Blake is in town, she would have no interest in a silversmith. If she is here to see me, she will soon show up at the palace,” Derek assured him. 

Stiles kept quiet, although in his mind, questions began lining up, begging him to ask. He knew this was sorcerer’s problems though, and he would wait until they were in the carriage and away from here. However, if she was here for Derek, what would happen if she won? What was a dark sorcerer, anyway? And who was Jennifer Blake? How did Deucalion know her? Or Derek, for that matter. Why would she wish to cause Derek problems? Why now? The questions continued to pile up. 

Kincaid efficiently hid the rings in a small suede bag and handed it to Derek. They quickly disappeared into his jacket, and immediately another bag sat in his hand. He looked at it once before handing it to Kincaid. The silversmith’s eyes grew large when he felt the weight of it. 

“My Lord, I am sure you pay me too much!” 

Derek smiled at the man. “I am sure your work is worth much more than that. Thank you, my friend. You have done me a great service.” 

“You come to me anytime you need something.” 

“You know I will, Kincaid. Until next time, my friend.” 

Derek nodded to the silversmith, and Kincaid gave a full bow to the Lord. Deucalion, Derek and Stiles then turned and stepped out of the small shop. 

They had just seated themselves when Derek spoke. “I know you have questions. You look as if you are ready to burst with them. Wait until we are back at the keep.” 

Here he thought he had been listening quietly. Stiles rubbed furiously at his head in frustration. He felt as if they were keeping him in the dark, even though, deep down, he knew they did not want Jackson, or anyone else, to overhear them. 

He sat, bouncing his leg with nervous energy. When Derek put his hand on that leg, the increase of pull seemed to anchor him, and he was able to relax. He realized then that both Derek and Deucalion were alert and keeping watch through the windows. Stiles knew then that the situation was serious. 

The ride back to the keep seemed to take longer than the ride to town, although Stiles was sure it was only the tension inside the carriage making it feel that way. He was grateful Derek never taken his hand away from Stiles’ leg. It was that touch alone that made it possible for him to sit quietly and not add to the stress. 

Once they stopped at the keep, and Jackson opened the carriage door, Derek led them directly to Peter’s quarters. The twins did not even bat an eye to see the three of them heading their way. They merely stepped back and opened the door, announcing them before they entered. 

Peter sat behind his desk, parchments laid open in front of him and an urn of tea beside the cup at his elbow. He sat straighter with their entry, obviously sensing the seriousness of their visit. 

“Normally, I would appreciate a diversion to escape the doldrums of the estate. However, I suspect this will not be any more enjoyable,” Peter said in greeting. 

“Deucalion and I suspect trouble may be brewing,” Derek told him. 

“Will this be quick, or should we take up residence in your office?” Peter asked. 

“Perhaps my office will fit us better.” Derek looked at the dregs of tea left in Peter’s cup. “I will have noon meal brought up with some fresh tea, if that pleases you?” 

“That would be nice. Allow me to reroll these scrolls, and I will join you.” 

The three men nodded their heads in respect, turned and left Peter’s space for Derek’s suite. 

By the time Peter, with the twins standing guard outside Derek’s door, entered his suite, noon meal had been set up on the table and Liberty was lazing by the hearth. Although the food was covered, the aroma had Stiles’ mouth watering. He had not realized how hungry he was. 

“I would prefer to hear your concerns before we eat. Worry agitates my digestion. Let me hear it now, so that we can eat leisurely while working on a solution to the problem,” Peter suggested. 

They sat down at the table, having already pushed the food to the far end. Derek looked meaningfully at Deucalion. 

Deucalion cleared his voice before speaking. “My Lord. While we were in town, I spotted a face I have not seen in many, many summers. Her name is Jennifer Blake. She is a dark sorceress.” 

“A dark sorceress. That sounds ominous. How does one become a dark sorceress, and what exactly does that mean?” Peter asked. 

“My training started shortly before she left. However, every new apprentice is told about her to this day. As a young lass, she came from a wealthy family. She was a beautiful child, and her parents loved and doted upon her to excess. When she tested positive for magic, she expected the same treatment from the sorcerers. 

“Obviously, she was treated no differently than the other gifted children were. It did not set well with her to have to learn the same mundane things as the others. Soon they discovered that besides being spoiled, she was also sneaky. For many summers, everyone had considered her merely rebellious. She would find scrolls the Elders carried with them, and delve into secrets far beyond her powers. 

“While we were training near Izington, she found a shortcut to her magic. She awed even the elder sorcerers with the things she could do. That concerned those experienced in magic a great deal. They began watching Jennifer closely after that. 

“Another thing that concerned the Elders was the fact that one of the students had disappeared. Search as we might, we could not find her. 

“It was during the next new moon, when the night was darkest, that Jennifer’s secret was discovered. We were still residing near Izington, not far from the standing stones there. The Sorcerers had set wards around the area where we camped. When the wards alerted them that someone had walked off toward the stones, they followed. 

“What they saw chilled them to the bone. Somehow, Jennifer had learned a spell to take total control of another of the students. She had him tied to the slab lying inside the circle. She had a silver knife raised as she chanted a dark spell to steal his power. 

“A quick flick of magic from one of the Elders had her chant choked off and her fingers too numb to hold the knife. It tumbled uselessly to the ground. 

“The young sorcerer that had been tied was quickly herded safely back to camp, while the remainder of the sorcerers contained Jennifer for trial. She had broken the most sacred of all the rules, _do no harm_. 

“Once all the Elders were present, she was tried and found guilty. Her punishment was to have her power burned from her. Somehow, during this process, she was able to pull some of the black magic she had acquired to the fore, and she managed to escape. Her freedom did not happen before she had been horribly disfigured, however. 

“The council of sorcerers have been searching for her ever since. We must contact them, and let them know she is here. The thing that worries me is, _why_ is she here? Is this just Chaos’ way to win? Or does she have a purpose in being here?” 

Even though he had spoken directly to Peter, Stiles knew he was also explaining this directly to him. Other than the crackling of the fire in the hearth, there was silence following Deucalion’s tale as everyone sought an answer to his questions. 

Peter ended the silence. “So, you were there when she was caught in the stone circle?” 

“Yes. She ran through the camp and took some scrolls when she escaped them. Her hair was burned off, and her face was an abomination. I had nightmares for many years after seeing her like that.” 

“Have you seen her also, Derek?” 

“No. I have only heard the stories about her.” 

“How long has it been since you last saw her?” Peter asked Deucalion. 

After a long pause, where Deucalion looked like he was thinking, he finally answered. “One hundred forty summers, give or take a score of summers. Since then, there have only been rumors of Jennifer throughout the land.” 

“How old  _are_ you?” Peter asked. 

“Well, I was twelve summers when I was tested, so I am somewhere around one hundred fifty summers,” Deucalion shared. 

Peter looked at him with disbelief. “You certainly do not look that old. Why is it then that Derek ages normally?” 

“Derek has not yet finished his training. It is imperative that you release him at some point so he can do so,” Deucalion stated. 

“Is there a reason you cannot finish his training here?” Peter asked. 

“Elders teach the apprentices from the areas of their own specialties. I have already taught Derek my area of specialty.” 

Derek broke in then. “While I excel in healing and warfare, they may not be my specialties. I will never know for sure unless I can finish my training.” 

Peter rose from the table and began pacing, arms folded across his chest before he spoke again. “You were learning magic at the same time. Were they new students, like you, that she took to the circle?” 

“No. The sorcerers she took had already been training for several years. I am grateful I had only just begun my training. It seemed that Jennifer sacrificed only those who had the power she desired.” 

Peter rubbed his chin as he thought. “The woman you saw in town was this disfigured girl?” 

“The woman I saw in town looked exactly like the young woman looked before the trials. She had not aged so much as a summer,” Deucalion replied. 

“Then how could it possibly be this Jennifer that you described?” Peter demanded. 

“Glamour. It uses very little power. I concentrated on her aura once I had spied her. Her aura is as black as pitch on a moonless night.” 

“That brings us back to why she is here,” Derek stated. 

“Yes, it does,” Peter agreed and returned to his seat. 

Stiles’ stomach took that moment to rumble. “Perhaps we should eat while the food is still warm. Maybe we will be able to think better on a full stomach. I will definitely be able to swing a sword easier when I leave for arms practice if I am not swooning from hunger,” Stiles threw in. 

The other three looked at him, and Stiles could feel his face heat up for his rudeness. “My apologies, my Lord,” Stiles stammered. 

“No, you are correct in your impertinence. Forgive me for forcing you to wait.” 

With that, Peter waved his hand toward the food, and Stiles pulled the cover off the platter closest to him while Deucalion passed out trenchers. Before long, they were all eating quietly. 

Stiles gorged himself on the juicy, roasted venison and the rough, grainy bread slathered in rich butter. Mushrooms roasted with chunks of garlic and onion balanced out the meal, and it was finished off with peaches, sliced and served with a spicy ginger sauce. The tea they shared from the kitchen was pale green and sweetened with honey and lemon. Stiles burped loudly when he finished. He rubbed his belly and sat back in his chair, sated. 

Then he realized his lapse of manners and quickly sat up straight. They were all looking at him. 

The expression Peter wore made Stiles think he was looking at an anomaly. Deucalion had a napkin covering his smile, and he knew the older man was smiling because of the crinkles around his eyes. Derek, on the other hand, merely looked at him with fondness, as if he enjoyed the unexpected delights that Stiles shared with him.

“Well, I see the lessons in etiquette were wasted. Such a pity,” Peter said drolly. 

“My apologies, my Lord.” 

Deucalion began laughing aloud then, and Derek soon followed suit. Stiles was relieved to see that it was Peter they laughed at, instead of him. 

“You really need to lighten up, Peter. The lad is comfortable enough to burp in your presence. Do not be so offended. At least, not until he passes gas from the other end,” Deucalion quipped in his unique accent. 

Deucalion and Derek began laughing again, while Stiles dropped his head in embarrassment. He did not see the smile that filled Peter’s face. However, he did hear when Peter slid his trencher away from him. 

Stiles looked up to see Deucalion take another bite of the peaches before he, too, slid his trencher away. Derek was leaning back in his chair. They were all finished eating, so Stiles placed more meat on his plate and set it on the floor for Liberty. 

“So, did a full belly give anyone more insight on why Jennifer might be here?” Peter asked. 

“I suspect it is Chaos using her to separate the two of you,” Deucalion stated. 

“That makes no sense. First, we have Gerard’s family trying to slay me, then a fish boy trying to slay Liberty. Those things did not feel anything like Deucalion leaving me in town or the dream Derek and I shared,” Stiles said. “It does not feel like the thoughts that kept filling my head earlier, either,” he added as an afterthought. For indeed, those thoughts  _did_ somehow have the same feel as the dream and Deucalion allowing him to stay in town. 

Peter and Deucalion looked at Stiles waiting for more, while Derek ran his hand down his face as if Stiles had said something he should not have. 

Then he remembered that he had mentioned the dream. “Oops.” He should have kept quiet. 

“Oops? Really? I would like to hear the rest of this story of shared dreams from the two of you,” Peter demanded. 

“It was the other night, after Stiles had arms practice while using a shield for the first time. He was too exhausted to exercise the bow with Isaac afterward. We brought him here for some healing tea as well as rest. By evening, I could not wake him to return him to his room. I was too tired to do anything more than climb on top of the covers and fall asleep. 

“I had been having a pleasant dream, one where we had already been united, when the burn from my marking woke me. Stiles had awakened first, and he was fighting off my advances. It seemed we had been having the same dream. Since that time, we have been careful to not chance something like that happening again,” Derek told them. 

“This is the first I hear of this?” Peter demanded. 

Derek raised one eyebrow before answering. “It certainly did not seem to be something that concerned you. Stiles and I are alert to any possible problems Chaos may present.” Then he looked at Stiles. “What thoughts were you having earlier?” 

“I can tell you about that later. The point is, this does not _feel_ the same. This feels more like the fish boy and Kate,” Stiles exclaimed. 

“Chaos also takes control of people, Stiles. Remember how I felt it would be all right to leave you alone in town,” Deucalion shared quietly. 

“I do not know how to explain it. This feels different. This feels like someone is behind it, organizing it,” Stiles explained with his arms flailing about himself in frustration. Liberty went to Stiles as he finished speaking and rubbed her head on his thigh. Stiles got the definite impression that she agreed. “Liberty thinks so, also.” 

The other three looked at him. Stiles could tell they were weighing his words before they continued. “If someone is behind this dark sorcerer and the lad who poisoned Liberty, my first thought would be Victoria Argent,” Peter shared. “As far as I know, she is at her estate and not here. Perhaps I should send guards to town to find out if anyone has seen her. If they locate her or the lad who poisoned Liberty, I will have them brought in. Maybe it would be wise to send a unit of guards to her estate, also. She has caused quite enough trouble for us, whether she is behind Jennifer’s appearance in town, or not.” 

“Good idea. I had planned to ask Chris to be Stiles’ personal bodyguard. I no longer think that is a good idea. If Jennifer heads this way, chances are a normal guard will only be slayed while trying to protect him. Maybe I will ask Isaac. He, at least, can protect Stiles from a distance and while he is hidden. I think he would be more effective and have a better chance to survive.” 

“What about this Jennifer?” Peter asked. 

“She must be left for the Council of Sorcerers to deal with. Mere guards would be useless against her,” Deucalion told him. 

“I will send a messenger to alert them directly. Does anyone have any other thoughts or questions before I leave?” Peter asked as he rose from the table. 

The three sorcerers looked at each other when Derek finally answered the question. “I do not believe so. If we think of something, I shall bring it to your attention, later.” 

“Good day, then. Oh, Stiles, I forgot. I am expecting a missive from your estate any day now. Expect to put time aside so you can learn about your holdings,” Peter said, as he stopped in the doorway on his way out. 

With all that was going on, taking time out for his ‘holdings’ was the last thing he wished to do. “Yes, my Lord,” he answered glumly. 

The door no sooner shut behind Peter than Stiles turned to Derek. “I was under the impression you only had one teacher at a time.” 

“Most of the time I was alone with one or two Elder sorcerers to learned the magic they were most powerful in. However, every summer, they all came together to test the children throughout the land. The group teaching stopped after Jennifer, I was told,” Derek explained. 

Stiles then focused on Deucalion. “What is your specialty?” 

Deucalion raised an eyebrow. “It is impolite to flaunt one’s attributes.” 

“Deucalion is extremely knowledgeable in the arts of warfare. It is because of him that I am as competent as I am.” 

“Why have you not trained me in those areas then?” Stiles asked. 

“I have, through Derek, as much as I can here. To truly get any experience though, we must travel to the desert, where no one can be harmed.” 

“Speaking of warfare and training, should you not be on your way for your arms practice?” Derek asked. 

Stiles sighed. He really did not enjoy arms practice. All the same, he rose to go, almost tripping over Liberty, lying at his feet. 

“I will go with you. It will make me feel better to ensure you are safe,” Derek told him, following Stiles to the door. 

* * *

 Arms practice was more painful that day. With the dark sorceress around, Derek would not allow Stiles to use the ‘best’ shield. He could use the basic shield with his magic tied off, though Chris’ slaps with his sword were surely leaving him bruised. 

Stiles was grateful to see Isaac, for that meant that his weapons training was over. Chris always left when the tall elf showed up. That also meant that Derek could easily talk to Isaac privately. None of the other soldiers in the training area would dare to get close enough to Derek to listen. 

“Isaac, my friend. How are you?” Derek asked, a smile filling his face. 

“I am well enough to give you another lesson in the techniques of archery. We could even put some coins on the one who hits the most cherries,” Isaac offered with a huge grin. 

“What, you wish to pauper the royal treasury?” Derek asked in mock indignation. 

“Nay, merely lighten your pockets some,” Isaac retorted with a smirk. 

“Actually, I do have a proposition to make you, and I will pay you well if you accept,” Derek offered, serious for the first time. 

Isaac stepped back and studied the Lord. “More than you pay me to teach the lad?” 

“Quite a bit more. We are worried about his safety. I need someone who can protect him while they are hidden, and at other times to act as his personal valet. I need eyes on him at all times.” 

Stiles did not like it when they talked about him while he was standing there. Now they were both looking at him, also. “Liberty needs protection, as well,” Stiles reminded Derek. He also hated it when he was ignored, and that was what they were doing. 

“For how long?” Isaac asked. 

“You need do this only until Stiles and I are hand-tied,” Derek responded. 

“May I sleep on it? I am more comfortable with my solitude in the woods than living among people.” 

Derek hesitated and cast a worried glance at Stiles. “Yes, you may. Pray, think favorably on it. I shall make it worth your while.” 

Isaac nodded, and Derek reached out to clasp arms with the taller man. When they released each other’s forearms, Derek nodded at Stiles and then returned to the keep. 

Isaac then had Stiles’ full attention. “In my pouch, I have some down that I collected from a goose. Care to see how far away from them we can get before one of us miss?” Isaac asked. 

Stiles smiled. This type of training he truly enjoyed. 

By the time they were on the last tiny feathers, the guards and soldiers had all stopped their own practice to watch them shoot at the tiny specks of fluff against the far wall. They were almost to the street gates of the practice area, and still neither of them had failed to hit their marks. 

The sound of a horse, galloping fast and heading toward the keep caught their attention. Everyone in the practice field ran out to the road, in the hopes that they might see what type of news the rider brought. 

When the rider was directly in front of them, Isaac yelled out, “Camden!” 

The rider quickly yanked back on the reins and turned. Stiles thought the horse would fall over with the sudden change of speed and direction. 

“Camden!” Isaac yelled again, and ran toward the horse. 

“Isaac?” the rider queried before he slid from his saddle. 

Stiles was surprised to see that the rider was as tall as Isaac. He was thin, and his dark hair was curly where it hung under the leather that bound it in a tail. The unruly stuff looked more like a rat’s nest than anything else after his ride. He had large, blue eyes, and if Stiles did not know any better, they were filled with tears! 

The two men grabbed each other in tight hugs. The others who had run out to see the news had turned to resume the practice field. Stiles stayed and continued to watch, and was surprised when he saw tears running down both of their faces. 

“You are alive! I heard that you had been taken as a slave. I am so glad you are back. Pray, tell me that you are free,” Isaac told the other man. 

The other man pulled away enough to look at Isaac closely. “You are a sight for sore eyes, my brother! However, I am a slave. Perhaps Lord Peter will allow me to stay and visit for a while. The estate has an overseer, but I believe the crown owns the land.” 

“Lord Peter owns you? We need to go see the sorcerer, now,” Isaac said. 

Then he stopped and looked at Stiles, as if just remembering who he was. “Camden, this is Stiles, Lord Derek’s apprentice and promised one. Stiles, this is my brother, Camden.” 

“Well met, Stiles,” Camden told him. 

Stiles remembered Isaac telling him about his brother. It had been at the time Isaac told him that he was of the blood. As he looked at the other man, all he could think about was what Isaac had said about his brother’s ears. They were easy to see the way he wore his hair tied back in a tail. Camden definitely had round ears! 

“Stiles, pray, can you get us in to see Lord Derek,” Isaac begged. 

That seemed to snap Stiles out of his haze. “Yes. I can take you there now.” 

While they had been standing there, one of the stable boys had come out and was waiting to take care of the messenger’s horse. After Camden grabbed a cloth bag that had been hanging from the saddle, he handed the horse off to the lad. Then Stiles led them directly to Peter’s quarters, where he could feel Derek’s pull. 

Aiden, yes, Stiles was sure it was Aiden, rapped on the door and spoke quietly as they approached. He then stood aside with the door wide open, while Ethan stood on the other side of the entrance. The two of them reminded Stiles of bookends, identical as they were. 

“After you found your way to see me the first time, I did not expect you would need a personal escort to visit me again. However, you are always welcome, as are Stiles and Isaac,” Peter said in greeting. 

Isaac stepped forward. “My Lord, I beg your pardon. I have business to discuss with Lord Derek.” 

Derek looked surprised at those words. He glanced at Stiles before responding to Isaac. “We are done here for the day. How can I help you?” 

“You asked me to serve as a bodyguard and personal servant to Stiles until the two of you are hand tied. I will do it, under one condition. Many summers ago, during a conflict with hunters, my brother Camden had been taken as a slave. Today is the first time I have seen him since that dreadful day. Pray, grant Camden his freedom.” 

“You do not…” Derek started, however, Peter spoke over him. 

“That is the only requirement you have to guard Stiles? You ask for no pay?” Peter asked. 

Derek glared at his uncle, although Stiles was confused at the proceedings. 

“The only thing I require is Camden’s freedom. They should not have taken him as a slave. He was born free.” 

“Well, then. I shall sign his papers to free him as soon as his owner agrees,” Peter told them. 

“Wait, I was under the impression the crown owned me and the rest of the slaves at Master Gerard’s estate,”  Camden stated. 

“Ah, the crown is merely seeing to the estate’s best interest until its true owner takes control,” Peter told him. 

Peter never looked at Stiles. However, Stiles now knew why Derek was glaring at him. “I agree to grant him his freedom. Isaac, I would have agreed if only I had understood it was something I could give you. You need do nothing you do not want to do. I relieve you of your bargain to protect me.” 

“Tut tut, dear lad. A bargain struck is a bargain struck. We shall release Camden from the bonds of slavery, and Isaac shall watch over you. Isaac agreed to this of his own free will,” Peter told Stiles. 

Stiles looked at Peter, astonished at his trickery. Peter merely looked smug. “I want to free him, Peter. Pray, do whatever you need to do to accomplish that,” Stiles averred, fuming at the Monarch’s audacity. “Isaac also deserves to be paid. Take it from my estate if you must.” 

“That may have been Isaac’s bargain; however, it is not mine. The one I offered is still on the table. Camden’s freedom is not part of it. That is between Stiles and Camden, and not underhanded dealings.” 

“Yes, yes. I am glad to see how united we all are for freeing this fine man. The crown shall pay you your worth, Isaac. Yet, no one has asked Camden if he desires his liberation.” 

“Camden, I offer you your freedom, if you wish it,” Stiles proclaimed. 

“Yes, Master, I do,” Camden asserted.

Stiles cringed in horror. Camden calling him ‘Master’ was the worst feeling he could remember. He had control and power over this man, and that was so not right! He looked at Derek, understanding for the first time why he did not like people calling him ‘Master’. Derek met his eyes in understanding. 

“I shall have one of my guards bring Deaton here to write up Camden’s emancipation papers,” Peter told them. “In the meanwhile, Camden, do you have the reports of the estate?” 

“Yes, my Lord,” Camden replied. 

“Excellent. You and your brother can go reunite yourselves, while Stiles and I go over the accounts. We are through for the night, Derek. Go get some rest; you have dark circles under your eyes.” 

Isaac and Camden quickly left, while Derek watched his uncle as if he had never seen him before. 

“Be gone! Stiles is safe here with me. If you do not wish to rest, go do whatever it is that you do when you leave here. Better yet, have one of the guards collect Deaton for me,” Peter ordered. 

After locking eyes with Stiles, Derek gave a small nod to Peter and left. 

Peter cleared a large spot on his desk and then emptied the bag in that area. There were several scrolls, as well as a note from the overseer. 

After glancing over the note, he handed it to Stiles to read. He felt it said nothing important, other than these scrolls were the accounting for the last moon. 

“All right my astute lad, let us see what you are worth,” Peter exclaimed, and opened the first scroll. 

This scroll was an accounting of the kitchen. It showed how much money had been spent in the last moon for food supplies, the cost of feeding the kitchen help, the three new bolts of cloth that were needed to dress those same slaves, and the cost of one who had birthed a still-born babe. 

“As you see here, the kitchen is a drain on your coins. However, if the kitchen is not in perfect working order, the rest of the estates will fall short in their abilities. Servants will become ill and weak. Weeds will take over the crops when the servants cannot tend them, etcetera, etcetera. Therefore, the kitchen is a necessary evil to the running of a good estate.” 

Peter handed Stiles the scroll. He was surprised at how many gold coins had been spent in the kitchen area, especially after working in that area himself. 

Another scroll was soon lying open before Peter. Stiles allowed the one in his hands to re-roll, and focused on the new one. 

“This is from the orchards. Here, on the plus, are the number of orange bushels that were sold, what the overseer was paid for them, and where they were shipped. This line here represents the lemons, and this one represents dates. Over here, is the cost of the workers, the cost of replacing tools, and the cost incurred when one of the workers fell out of a tree and was laid up for several days.” Peter’s fingers pointed to all the points of interest as he talked. After explaining everything, he allowed Stiles to study it on his own, while he opened the next scroll. 

That was how their time went. Peter talked about different aspects of his estate and pointed out the necessary costs that insured the estate would continue making money. He also made a few suggestions to change things, suggestions that made good sense to Stiles. They were just finishing, when the guard, Aiden again, Stiles thought, knocked and then opened the door. “Mister Deaton has arrived,” he told Peter. 

“Send him in, and find Isaac and Camden for me,” Peter returned. He then gathered all the scrolls and carefully slid them back into the bag. 

“Should I leave?” Stiles asked. 

“You, my enterprising young man, are needed here if you plan on liberating your slave this day,” Peter answered. 

Deaton stepped into the room, holding a short stack of vellum. “I was told that you wanted me for official documents?” he queried. 

“You heard correctly,” Peter told him. 

Deaton set his armload on Peter’s desk. Then he pulled a chair up and began emptying his pockets of inkbottles, quills, purple candles, a tin box, and ribbon. Finally, he seated himself, selected a quill, unstoppered an inkbottle and looked directly at Peter, awaiting his orders. 

“Stiles here, has a servant he wishes to emancipate from his holdings. I doubt that the papers have been updated to show Stiles as the new owner, though.” 

“His name?” Deaton asked. 

“Camden,” Stiles answered. 

Deaton nodded once, dipped his quill into the ink, and began writing. After much dipping and writing, he started anew on another sheet of papyrus. The room was quiet outside of the sound of his quill scratching across the vellum and the ever-present fire crackling in the hearth. 

Before he finished with the second sheet, Aiden again rapped on the door before announcing Isaac and Camden. 

The door closed quietly behind them. There was no place for them to sit at the desk, so they stood by while they all watched Deaton finish writing. After wiping off his quill and setting it aside, he took up another, sharper quill, and handed it to Stiles. Then he corked the open bottle of ink, and opened another. 

“Sign here, on this line. It shows you to be the owner of Camden,” Deaton explained. 

Stiles eyes grew big as he looked at Deaton, and he sat back in his chair, refusing to sign anything. “I do not want to own him; I want to free him,” Stiles exclaimed. 

Deaton’s eyes twinkled as he smiled. “In order for you to free him, you must first own him. As it stands, he belongs to a dead man. So, if you will sign this, we can get on to freeing him.” 

Stiles felt tremendously stupid. He sat forward, dipped the quill and signed his name. The ink he wrote with was a different shade of black than what Deaton had used to write the deed. It almost looked blue, Stiles thought. 

Deaton then selected another quill and signed his name beneath Stiles’ signature. He then opened the tin and poured a small amount of coarse, blue sand on the paper to pick up any remaining wet ink. 

After pouring off the loose sand, he set that paper aside and then set the second one before Stiles. “This paper frees Camden from bondage,” Deaton explained. 

Stiles dipped his quill into the ink again, and signed where Deaton indicated. When he finished, Deaton, again, signed below Stiles. As he was doing that, Peter lit one of the candles Deaton had brought. Deaton then slid the vellum and the quill he had been using over to Peter. The Monarch added his signature with a flourish, picked up the candle he had lit and poured a small blob of wax at the bottom of the paper. Then he pushed his official signet into it. 

“It is now official, Camden. You are free,” Peter proclaimed. 

Stiles looked back at the two men standing behind him. They were hugging each other as happy tears silently rolled down Camden’s face. 

Stiles had not had that type of response to his own freedom. All the same, nothing he had ever done in the past had ever felt so right. He was sure that he would be doing this again. 

“Isaac, would you like the honors of removing his collar?” Stiles asked. 

There was a quiet thump as Camden’s collar hit the floor.


End file.
